


Drought

by Watergirl14



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Awesome Bulma Briefs, Courtship, Eventual Smut, Everything else is just the journey, F/M, Family Fluff, Hints to DBZ Abridged, Kidnapping, Look I wrote the smut first, Once these idiots finally fall in love, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Bulma Briefs/Yamcha, Past Relationship(s), Rejection, Slave Trade, Slow Burn, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-17 21:45:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 80,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl14/pseuds/Watergirl14
Summary: Dr. Briefs has nearly saved the Namekian people from the terrible drought ravaging their planet, with the help of his family and a few transplants from Earth. His daughter finds herself studying scrolls and hiding from unwanted affections. Their rescue operation is brought to a stand-still when a Saiyan vessel lands in need of repair.Beauty and the Beast AU. Partially written for NaNoWriMo 2017.





	1. The Saiyans Arrive

**Author's Note:**

> This story has gripped my head for too long. I had to write it and get it out. More to come, but not sure when!

Bulma stepped out into the daylight, slipping a straw hat onto her head to shield her face from the three suns. Before her sprawled the blue and green scenery, round buildings dotting the landscape. The Namekians were already out and about for the day, laughing and training in the sunshine. Just a few months ago, such a happy sight would be rare in this village. Bulma glanced at the nearby lake with a small smile – the water levels were up at least two centimeters from the day before.

Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, Bulma turned her head to see her father engaged in deep conversation with one of the Namekian elders, Moori, both walking into the large glass dome. If she squinted, she could make out the pump houses that were her father’s pride and joy. This was the fourth such bio-dome they had built since arriving on Namek two years ago, and it had only been completed within the last week. The members of this village were just now remembering what it was like to have plentiful water, though the lake had a long way to go before it reached pre-drought levels.

Aside from the villagers and her father, Bulma hadn’t seen anyone else that day. Whether that was a blessing or not remained to be seen. On the one hand, she would love to sit down and have coffee with someone. On the other hand, she really didn’t want to get lectured again about how she was thirty and not getting any younger.

With a sigh, Bulma stepped off the final stair of the village’s library. Though the scrolls were in a foreign script, she had just today managed to translate and read the very last one of the small collection. It had been faster than the last three libraries – now that she had been on-planet for so long, the language was starting to come to her more naturally and she didn’t have to struggle with the complex grammar. Plus, Tights picked up languages like it was her job, so whenever Bulma had a particularly tough sentence she’d just send her sister a picture for a second opinion. Now she turned back toward the main complex. The translations needed uploading to the servers. It would be a waste not to preserve them for future historians.

“Good morning Bulma!” she heard from below her.

“Good morning, Dende!” Bulma said with a smile. The children on Namek were her favorite, especially this curious one who was beaming up at her. “Come to bother me again?”

Dende laughed. “You said you wanted to be bothered more when you were in the library.”

“That I did.” The heiress held up her datapad. “Do you want to know what I translated today?”

“Yes! So does Cargo!” Dende grabbed at her hand as politely as a child could and tugged. Though Namekians seemed to grow fast, he hadn’t quite mastered manners yet. “Can you show him too?”

That was how Bulma found herself surrounded by so many children, reading from her pad a traditional Namekian story about a strong warrior from eons ago, making his way across the endless green sea after a fierce war. They were enrapt, still young enough not to know all the traditional stories, but old enough to laugh and point out when Bulma had gotten some key detail wrong.

As the morning waned into afternoon, Bulma wandered back into the dome, hoping to make it to the upload point unscathed. That, though, was not to be.

“Bulma!” she heard from across the complex, and she could feel her shoulders droop. Turning, she saw her whole group of friends walking toward her from the direction of the mess hall. Tien, Puar, Chiaotzu, and Yamcha. It was the latter who had called her name, and she fought to replace a cringe with a (hopefully friendly-looking) smile.

“Hi everyone,” she managed.

“We were just getting lunch,” Yamcha continued, grinning. “Want to come with us?” He winked at her, which five years ago would probably have made her swoon. Now, though, it just made her want to roll her eyes. (She didn’t. Barely.)

“It’s a little late for lunch,” she said, making to move past them. Unfortunately, her stomach betrayed her and growled as she passed Puar.

“It sounds like you’re hungry!” the cat chirped. “Your mom made tacos today in the cafeteria!”

“We’re all going,” said Chiaotzu, just as chipper. Maybe there was something in the water. At least Tien didn’t look overly happy today, though he did nod.

Bulma sighed. She was hungry, after all, and it wouldn’t be so bad with the whole group. She could fend off the advances of her ex well enough. “Okay,” she said simply, ignoring how much Yamcha lit up.

“Where are you off to today?” Chiaotzu asked her as they walked on.

“The server rooms,” Bulma said, pulling her datapad up. “I just finished translating the last of the scrolls in the library.” With a flick of her wrist, the pad projected the scene she’d just closed, with the hero fighting a many-armed beast. “Now I’ve just got to upload it and add it to the rest.”

Tien glanced at her. “So that makes, what, the third library? Aren’t they all the same anyway?”

“Fourth. And no.” Bulma whirled the pad over, the hologram cutting across Tien’s chest and making him flinch. “All of the villages, their literature is very different. The same ideas, same stories, but the details! That’s where the really interesting differences are.”

Yamcha rolled his eyes. “Why are you reading these anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be an engineer?”

A familiar wave of anger washed through her. Not this again. “My engineering ability isn’t affected by reading Namekian scrolls, thanks.”

“Hey Tien,” said Puar abruptly. “How did your date yesterday?” Yes, that was right. Bulma’s sister, Tights, had finally asked out the warrior and managed to go with him to dinner the night before.

Said warrior glanced away from the rest of the group. (Wow, she didn’t think she would ever see Tien blush.) “It was fine. We are…we are getting dinner again tomorrow.”

Bulma couldn’t help but smile at that. Tights had been interested for a long time.

Yamcha laughed and patted Tien’s shoulder. “Well, that’s one of the Briefs girls down, huh?”

Something icy lanced through Bulma’s gut at that, and, glaring at Yamcha, she started to walk back to the upload point. “On second thought, I’ll just eat by myself, if you’re going to be a jerk.”

The group at her back was quiet, and just as she was rounding the corner, she could hear them bursting back into activity, mostly by ragging on Yamcha that he’d blown it again.

* * *

When Bulma walked in, her father’s workshop was deceptively quiet. As a kid, she could remember there always being a flurry of clanks and whirrs as Dr. Briefs tinkered and built whatever contraption he’d dreamed up that week. Now in his older years he’d moved on from twisting wrenches to designing holograms and having his machines do the actual construction. But, as she found out when she rounded the corner, Bulma’s father hadn’t slowed down.

“Hey Dad,” she said, stopping just before entering the main work area. Her father was perched in a chair, contemplating something on a screen. “Water pumps again?”

Dr. Briefs nodded without turning around. “They are working well, my dear, but I am afraid without some modifications that we risk causing earthquakes. The ground here is quite volatile.” Now he spun in his chair, smiling brightly at her. “Your sister told me that you’ve finished this village’s library.”

“Yup.” Pulling over the spare chair, Bulma sat down at her father’s bench. “They’re all uploaded now. Still nothing about their engines.”

The older man hummed. “Well, I suppose if their population had such an extreme bottleneck as they said, they might not be so worried about keeping up with their technology. History and stories might well be their priority.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “I think if my entire species got down to 100 people, I’d work on getting us off my planet and trying our luck elsewhere.”

“That’s you, my dear.” Her father picked up a datapad and swiped through it. “Everyone I’ve talked to treats the fast-travelling space pods like a legend, not a fact.”

Bulma nodded at this—she’d even gone to chat with their Grand Elder and while he remembered the frantic escape of his brother to Earth, he had no idea how to replicate the technology.

Behind them, the door opened with a cheery swish. Just as cheery, Bulma’s mother strode in with a tray of lemonade, ice clinking against the glasses and colorful straws spinning about. “Hello, my darlings!” she said, giving her daughter and her husband each a kiss on the cheek. “Would my favorite hard-working scientists like some lemonade?”

“Hey!” chided another voice from the door. Bulma smiled, turning around to see her sister, Tights, leaning in the doorway. “Is there no lemonade for the hard-working authors around here?” The eldest of the Briefs girls strode in and stole a glass, earning chuckles from the rest of her family.

“Why, everyone gets lemonade!” Mrs. Briefs giggled, setting the tray down on the workbench as Bulma and her father reached for their own cups. “I was off to find you next, sweetie. I just didn’t think I’d find you in the lab!”

“It was hard to ignore all the commotion in here, Mom.” Tights pecked her mother on the cheek. “I could probably hear you humming to yourself a mile away.”

“So!” Bulma leaned over, lightly elbowing her sister with a grin. “I heard you had a date with a certain Tenshinhan.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Briefs clapped her hands together. “What a strapping young man he is! And such a _charmer_! Maybe you’ll be writing romance novels next, Tights!”

Dr. Briefs chuckled and rested a hand on his wife’s back. “I hope not. She’s too good at the science fiction.”

Tights just shrugged, sucking the lemonade down through the straw, barely hiding her smile.

Bulma’s mother’s joy was absolutely contagious as she flung her arms around her daughters. “Oh, I’m so proud of you both! My babies, all grown up and so successful!”

“Aww, Mom, we love you too,” Bulma said.

“Sit down, darling,” Dr. Briefs said, gently maneuvering his wife into his comfy desk chair. “Plenty of room in here for all of us.”

The family sat in warm company for a bit, sipping their lemonade and chatting about little things. Replacing ingredients in a cookie recipe. A troublesome bug with a cleaning bot. Whether or not a sentence sounded weird. How they were going to restock the cafeteria that her mom ran.

Eventually Bulma’s mother kissed them all goodbye and went for her evening walk, and Tights lingered a little longer before getting _that_ look on her face that said she was going to be writing for the next two days straight. So it was Dr. Briefs and his youngest, the former turning back to his desk and twirling a pen around his hand, water pump diagrams back on the screen.

Bulma picked up the pad that her father had forgotten in the commotion. His notes blinked back into existence, the familiar scrawl of his handwriting around a quick doodle of the Namekian ship they’d used to get here. No sign of it in any of the texts she’d translated. Nothing.

“Dad,” Bulma said quietly. She didn’t have to look up; his chair squeaked as he turned to her. She waved the pad, refusing to meet her father’s eyes. “Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

“What, in the libraries?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Briefs huffed. “Nonsense. Where would you get an idea like that? _My_ daughter? Wasting her time?”

Bulma sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Never mind.”

A warmth on her shoulder had her finally looking up. Her father’s friendly eyes were locked on hers. “Bulma,” he said simply.

“Dad,” she sniffled (which she would vehemently deny later), “I don’t think people care about what we’re doing.” Sure, the Namekians cared, since they were helping their planet. Sure, her family cared. But her friends from Earth?

He pulled her into a hug. Bulma couldn’t remember the last time they’d hugged. The pad fell loosely to the tabletop as she returned the gesture. She willed herself not to cry.

“It doesn’t matter, my dear,” her father said. “You’re brilliant, and the Briefs family is proud of you.”

Thus began the waterworks. Damn, she’d almost made it without crying. “Thanks,” she managed when he patted her back. Pulling out of the hug and wiping her eyes, Bulma grumbled, “You really need to wash that lab coat, Dad.”

Her father laughed. “I suppose I should. Come on, sweetie.” They stood. “Let’s go get a bite for dinner. I’ve got a new idea for the purifying system that I want to run by you.”

* * *

A few weeks had passed and not much had gone on. Bulma had scarcely left her father’s lab, working on schematics during the day and translating tricky passages by night. The few times she’d ventured outside it had been to talk to the Namekians, charting out other villages they wanted to go to next. There were at least three more scattered around the planet. That, and tracking down any scrolls not housed in the library. Today, though, there was an energy in the air that made her wander out into the afternoon sunlight.

The village was buzzing with activity. Adults were huddled together talking, all looking vaguely worried. The children dashed about, trying to break into those huddles and being shooed off. The air was full of whispers which didn’t let up even as Bulma walked further and further along the path.

“Elder Moori,” she called as she spotted the older Namekian walking out of a building.

“Ah, Bulma!” he said jovially, the concern almost vanishing from his face. “So nice to see you. How have your translations been going?”

She smiled. It was nice to have someone who understood her work. “Quite well, actually. I’ve managed to get Cargo to relinquish his favorite scroll. But,” she said quickly, before Moori could express his quite-obvious happiness, “I have a question for you. What’s with all the commotion?”

That mirth was washed away so fast she almost regretted saying anything. “Erm,” he started. “That’s a bit of a story.”

“I love stories. I’ve got time.”

“That you do.” The elder sighed. “The simple answer is that the royal family has arrived unexpectedly.” He waved his hand around. “They haven’t stopped by the planet since last year, and haven’t visited our village in over a decade. It’s a first for most of the younglings…and some of the adults.”

Bulma frowned, thinking. “I didn’t know your people had a royal family.” Nothing of the sort had ever been mentioned to her. She knew they had the Grand Elder Guru, who she’d thought had been their monarch at first, but was reassured otherwise. Perhaps they had one after all?

“We don’t,” Moori said simply. “We are part of another empire, the Saiyan empire. Normally they leave us well alone, but today they seem to have decided to check up on us.”

“Saiyans, huh?” Bulma thought. She’d seen non-Namekians come through the planet on occasion. It was positioned well for people to stop over between long trips, though most of the off-worlders stayed near the poles. Most couldn’t handle the constant sunshine and had to stay close to the border of the planet’s day-side and night-side (how a planet managed to be tidally locked to not one but three suns she hadn’t yet figured out.) But she’d never seen any of these Saiyans venture out. “Are they friendly?”

“They are a warrior race,” Moori said simply. “But they are not malicious. Once they deposed of Lord Frieza, they—”

“Who is Lord Frieza?” Bulma interrupted. A collective gasp from behind her made her turn around – some of the children had apparently been listening in. Once she’d seen them they all flinched and hid, with poor Dende stuck at the front.

“Well,” said Elder Moori, looking like he was trying to hide amusement behind disapproval. “It seems that some of our younglings would like to take a history quiz to enlighten Bulma.”

All the others shrank from Dende, leaving him the main victim. With a gulp, the child stepped forward. “Frieza was a terrible emperor who enslaved a lot of people, like us and the Saiyans. And he killed lots of people too. But the Saiyan prince killed Frieza and took the empire over for himself, but they don’t go around enslaving and killing people, so it’s not so bad.”

A little head poked out from around Dende. “You forgot the part about the flying castle,” Cargo whispered. Or tried to whisper, because everyone else, including Moori, nodded.

Dende, embarrassed, quickly bit out, “And the prince has a flying castle that he uses to go between planets and that’s where they live all the time and now they are visiting us.”

Seemingly satisfied, Moori waved with his hand and the children scattered, Dende gone quickest of all.

Bulma chuckled. “Okay, so the Saiyans are here. And they’re not as bad as this Frieza guy. What do they want?”

A shrug. “The last time, they wanted money. Provisions. To see how things are going with off-worlders.”

“And the drought?” a voice said from beside them. Turning, Bulma saw her father walking up, looking as content as he always did. “Do they care about that?”

Moori’s mouth twitched in answer.

“I see,” said Dr. Briefs. “And where is this prince? Can you not talk to him about the drought?”

“No one has seen the prince in ten years,” said Moori. “His court leaves the castle each visit, not him.”

“So, he’s dead?”

Moori shook his head. “No one knows, Bulma. Some people say that there is no prince, that he’s a myth the Saiyans use to stay in power. Some people think that he is insane, or sick, or that he is back on their home planet.”

“It’s preposterous,” Dr. Briefs grumbled. “Dead or insane or not, that a ruler wouldn’t care about a drought ravaging a planet of his subjects just seems cruel.”

“Why do people think he’s crazy?” said Bulma. “Just because he doesn’t leave?”

The elder shrugged again. “I have few answers about the prince.” There was a shout from nearby, and Moori glanced at it. “Forgive me, friends, but I must go. The Saiyans will be here soon, and I must be ready to greet them.”

They waved as he shuffled them off, and wordlessly Bulma and her father turned to head back to the compound. An outside observer would have no doubt wondered what it was they were thinking about so intently, and where they were about to disappear to.


	2. Lost in Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The castle-ship bears investigation.

The cafeteria was fairly dead at the moment, just the Briefs family still lingering after lunch. It had been a few days since the ship had landed. Mrs. Briefs had made a wonderful chicken noodle soup, only just now having stopped blushing and giggling from the ceaseless compliments. She’d managed to ensnare Tights into helping clean the kitchen, despite it being Bulma’s turn to do the dishes. Her elder sister had been grumbling all afternoon about revenge (it seemed, from overhearing, that she planned to part Bulma from her chocolate store. As if, though. Tights couldn’t begin to _fathom_ the security Bulma put on her chocolate.) Bulma and her father sat at one of the tables, speaking in hushed tones.

“Preposterous,” Dr. Briefs said. (It was clearly his word of the day.) “This whole thing. No good ruler in their right mind would abandon an entire planet and let it get to this point.”

Bulma sighed. “There’s no guarantee that this guy is a _good_ ruler at all.” She pressed on, ignoring how her father was shaking her head. “People abandon and look down on their people all the time. Remember the French Revolution?”

Her father waved his hand, cutting her off. “Surely, someone with the capacity to lead an intergalactic empire would be rational enough to know that he can’t just let a planet die. My dear, don’t you pinch your brow like that, I hate to see you frustrated.”

“You’re assuming he’s rational, dad! We don’t know anything about this empire! It could be terrible!” She smacked her hands on the table, rattling the lingering plates. “We don’t even know if he’s _real_!”

Tights poked her head out from around the kitchen. “Everything okay out there?”

“Yes, quite well!” Dr. Briefs said. Bulma let her head drop to the table. She could only take father’s persistent optimism for so long.

As the eldest of the Briefs daughters vanished back to dish duty, Bulma tried to remember to take deep breaths. That was supposed to calm frustrations. She wasn’t really good at that whole _keeping calm_ thing people were always going on about, though.

“Someone should just go talk to the lad and tell him what’s going on.”

“Dad,” Bulma groaned, voice muffled from the table, “That’s the stupidest idea I have ever heard.”

“Risky, yes.” The sound of metal on concrete rang out as her father pushed his chair back. Bulma looked up to see him pacing a bit around the cafeteria. “Possibly dangerous. But I can’t believe that they would make up a monarch like that. That’s just ridiculous.”

From the kitchen, her mother’s voice rang out over running water as she walked out, collecting the remaining dishes. “He could be a puppet king! Like in the novels!”

Dr. Briefs nodded as his wife left again. “Very good, my love! But even so, someone in that castle must hold the power there! Why not start with the prince?”

Bulma drew in a breath. This was a losing battle. “What would you even say, Dad? _Hello sir, please stop ignoring the Namekians, who are dying of thirst?_ ”

A chuckle. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

The water ceased, then, and Tights and Mrs. Briefs wandered back out, drying their hands.

“You’re going then.” said Bulma. It wasn’t a question, but her father nodded anyway.

Her mother tut-tutted. “I hope not today. It’s already past lunch.”

“I’m afraid, darling, that I’ve already made up my mind to head out.” He dropped a kiss to his wife’s head, making her giggle. “I’m sure the three of you can handle things while I’m gone. Shouldn’t take much longer than the evening to get over to the Saiyan castle-ship anyway.”

“For the record, I think this is a terrible idea.”

Tights elbowed her sister a bit. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Bulma rubbed her ribs and scowled. “I used it all up after I met Yamcha.”

Afternoon chores finished, the family headed off. Her mother gave her father a squeeze and a kiss and wished him well, told him to change his jacket because it stunk. Tights did the same, warning him to come back before midnight or he’d turn into a pumpkin (“Preposterous,” he’d chuckled).

Bulma, though, lingered after her family had dispersed, pulling him up into a tight hug. “Please be careful, Dad.”

“I will, my dear. I promise.” He clapped her heartily on the back. “Besides, who knows what wonderful technology these folks may have? I might come back and solve all our space travel problems!”

She smiled. “Okay, but if you’re not back when I wake up tomorrow I’m going after you guns blazing.”

He gave her one last squeeze before pulling back from the hug. “I’m counting on it, Bulma.”

* * *

Inside the castle, two Saiyans stood just inside the royal foyer, armored and armed. For all the ferocity of their attire, though, they stood lax against the wall, spears draping out of their hands and tails wrapped only loosely around their waists.

“This is so boring,” the first one said. “How come we never get to go planet-side? Everyone else is having all the fun. Trying the food. Going outside. Maybe even fighting people.”

The second Saiyan, the one with longer hair, thwacked at his brother with the butt of his spear. “No one is out there fighting, Kakarot. Namekians don’t like violence.”

“Raditz,” whined Kakarot, “They have warriors out there. And there’s lots of people at the poles. Things to fight. It’s stupid that we have to stay here.”

With a huff, Raditz crossed his arms over his chest, spear lying forgotten against the stone wall. “Well, I’ll give you that it's stupid. Nothing to protect in here anyway.” He nodded his head toward one of the rooms off to the side. “Broken down healing pods, warp drive that won’t go to full warp. Useless.”

Kakarot poked his head out of the foyer, looking up the grand staircase for a moment. Getting caught complaining was not going to end well. Even though the halls were empty, he still whispered. “And the prince wouldn’t even let us fight if we did find warriors.”

“You’re going to get us killed,” Raditz grumbled.

“At least we’d be fighting.”

“Kakarot,” Raditz said under his breath, “This ship is too broken down to handle any kinds of fighting. Why do you think we came to Namek in the first place?”

The younger brother tapped his head for a moment, thinking. “Taxes?”

“Supplies.” Raditz took his brother’s hand and rapped it against his skull, making Kakarot yelp. “We need machinery. We need to fix everything that’s broken in this castle.”

Holding his hand (and looking much more like a petulant child than his power would suggest), Kakarot frowned. “We’d need a hundred years for that. And someone who actually knows how to fix things.” The contingent of Saiyans on the ship were servants and warriors. A few of the members had learned to do rudimentary repairs, but they hadn’t been back to their home world for any sort of engineer.

“Yeah,” Raditz scoffed. “We both know that the prince isn’t going to bring anyone onto his ship. It’s _too dangerous_.”

“Wait,” Kakarot said suddenly. The spear was in his hand in an instant, and Raditz followed suit just as fast, both jumping to the ready. “Did you hear that?”

Instead of answering, Raditz just lunged into the foyer.

* * *

Entering the castle, Dr. Briefs found, was much easier than expected, though getting there had taken the better part of the hour via hoverbike. It seemed that most of the Saiyans had gone into the town to collect taxes and do other such business, because many of the halls were empty. That wouldn’t do, of course. He needed to get to the prince, after all, and he assumed that strolling into the prince’s chambers was not the ideal solution.

“Hello?” he called, hands behind his back. There was no reply. He supposed no one was home. Or at least, no one was in the first few rooms.

Ever the scientist, he spotted a glowing panel in the corner of his eye and wandered over to it. Embedded into the wall, it was slowly swiping through graphs and panels of alien text. Tentatively, he pressed a finger to one of them and the picture filled the whole screen. A sort of tank was displayed, with a strange apparatus in the middle that resembled a rebreather. But there was a large, red symbol in the corner. He was no expert on xenolinguistics, but he would wager that there was something wrong with the contraption.

A few more taps of the fingers and he brought up a star map. Though he could not read the script, it seemed to be displaying their current location. “Interesting,” he muttered to himself. Manipulating the screen gave him the chance to zoom in on a highlighted planet – clearly Namek. And a dotted line reached from said place to another world. Was it their path forward, or backward, he wondered?

There was no time to find out, apparently, because he suddenly heard a clatter of feet and before he could turn around fully, two dark-haired men (presumably Saiyans) were holding spear tips to his chest, looking coldly menacing.

“Gentlemen!” he shouted, holding his hands up. “I am no threat!”

“What are you doing here?” growled the longer-haired one.

“Who are you?” said the other, just as ferocious.

“My name is Dr. Briefs,” he began cautiously. “I am a scientist, and I have come to talk to you about the Namekians.”

The longer-haired Saiyan frowned. “But you are not a Namekian.” When the older man shook his head, he glanced at his companion, who shrugged. “What are you, then?”

“Are you a tailless Saiyan? Raditz, doesn’t he look like one?” said the other one, looking less angry and more excited.

“I will happily answer your questions if you would kindly remove your weapons from my chest.” The two guards exchanged dubious looks and Dr. Briefs waggled his hands. “I am an unarmed old man, and there are two of you gentlemen, and all I wish to do is talk.”

Raditz huffed. “Fine, but if you try anything _we_ will kill you.” The other nodded vigorously. “And remove your jacket. It smells vile.”

Once the offending garment was hung up on a nearby rack, the guards returned to a more neutral standing position. Dr. Briefs could not help but rub his chest a bit, despite not having touched the spears at all. “Thank you.”

“Why are you on Namek?” said the short-haired Saiyan, who was immediately elbowed for his trouble.

“Shut up, Kakarot,” hissed Raditz. “Let me ask the questions. Old man, you didn’t answer me before. What is your species?”

Ah, of course. “I am a human. We come from Earth, a planet about, oh…” He did some mental calculations, accompanied by hand waves. “I’d say 17, 18 light years from here.”

“What?” said Raditz. “How long did it take you?”

“He is old,” offered Kakarot. “Maybe he started twenty years ago.”

Dr. Briefs shook his head, cutting them off. “The travel time is about 34 days, give or take.”

“What?!” This time both Saiyans shouted, looking at each other.

Hmm. “Is that long?” Honestly, he was hoping he could get the time down. He’d been making modifications since getting to Namek, in what little spare time he had…

“Ten years ago, maybe we could have made it in that time,” said Kakarot. “I’m not so sure now. Four, five years?”

Raditz cut him off by thwacking him with his spear butt. “Briefs, you—”

“Dr. Briefs, my good man. I didn’t get my PhD for nothing.”

Kakarot leaned over. “I like him,” he whispered.

Raditz did not seem so amused. “Fine. _Dr._ Briefs, you say you are a scientist. Did you build the engine needed to make this journey?”

“I didn’t build it,” he replied. “But I did fix it. I believe the technology was actually present here, on this planet, before the climate event that wiped out most of their race.”

“Ah,” said Kakarot, lighting up. “You’re a mechanic!”

Dr. Briefs hummed. “I suppose you could say that. I’d call myself an engineer, or an inventor. A tinkerer, perhaps, would be the best word.” He clapped his hands together. “And I have already seen that you have a lot of things needing tinkering here! Errand or no errand, I would love the chance to fiddle with your systems.”

“Duly noted,” said Raditz. “Hold on.”

He pulled the younger Saiyan aside for a moment, too far away for Dr. Briefs to make out any conversation points. But from the distance it did seem that both of the men were getting more and more excited. Perhaps, thought Dr. Briefs, this was going to go better than expected.

The two returned smiling, even Raditz, who spoke. “Briefs—I mean, Dr. Briefs—we might have something for you to tinker with.”

* * *

The notification that popped up on her pad was a surprise, considering that Bulma knew her father was on his way to the castle-ship. No one ever really messaged her otherwise, at least not during the day. This one was addressed from her mother, asking her if she could grab the old electric mixer from the storage lab please, thank you dear, the new one had just died on her in the middle of making some chocolate chip cookies. (How her mother had managed to get the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies in the first place was beyond even her genius. Hopefully her stash was safe.)

Bulma could practically smell her mother’s oven already, and the idea of food that wasn’t materialized from a synthesizer was too good to pass up. Besides, maybe chocolate would soothe her worried nerves. She was on her feet and out the door of her study before she realized she’d put her data pad down.

It was just a brisk walk from the complex to the storage lab, where her father’s miscellaneous objects had collected since they’d begun this adventure. A few codes punched into a few key pads and the doors slid open. As she walked into the room, though, she was surprised when the automatic lights failed to turn on.

“Huh,” Bulma said to no one. “That’s odd.” A quick rummaging through her pockets, though, and she had out a flashlight. If the lighting system was down here, it was probably down in other buildings too. She’d have to re-arrange her whole afternoon to fix it! The smile across her face couldn’t be helped – it had been weeks since she’d had the chance to repair something.

First, though, the mixer. The scant organization her father put into the storage lab was, at the very least, separated out by whose equipment was whose, so Mrs. Briefs had her own little nook. Dilapidated vacuums and house-cleaning bots lay in various states of disrepair, some cannibalized for parts. Luckily, on the top shelf was the old mixer, too antiquated to be useful otherwise. Damn, though, it was high. “Ugh.” On tip-toe she could just barely graze it, flashlight dangled precariously from her teeth. Was there a step stool somewhere?

“Want a hand with that?” said a deep voice from behind her.

Spinning to look, her light fell on a large and imposing shape. With a shriek, she jumped back, grabbing at the closest object (a floor lamp) and whirling it around in a mockery of defense.

“Whoa!” said the shape, who jumped back himself. “It’s me, it’s me!”

First relief, then annoyance, washed through her as she yelled (ineffectually, given the mouth flashlight). “Yamcha! What the hell!?”

“Sorry—I—look, I saw you coming in here and—I’m sorry!” Suddenly her face was filled with greenish-purple. Bulma flinched back and the flashlight dropped from her teeth. They both made a mad scramble for it, Yamcha proving to be just slightly quicker. “I didn’t mean to upset you before and I wanted to do something nice for you to show I was sorry. So…I got you these.”

Her flashlight, in his hands, illuminated the greenish-purple blob sufficiently for her to see it. “You got me an Ajisa plant.” Where did he pick it from? She _really_ hoped he hadn’t stolen it from Tsuno’s garden.

“Well,” Yamcha started, holding the bundle out insistently, “I saw that they had flowers, and they’re pretty, and _you’re_ pretty, so—”

“No thank you,” Bulma said. She held her hand out for the flashlight but instead the bouquet was placed in it. “Whatever. Never mind.”

Yamcha had what could only be described as an embarrassed optimistic look on his face. “Here,” he said, “Let me grab that thing for you.” A quick flight and her mother’s spare mixer was retrieved, haphazardly placed in her hands next to the bouquet. Then the flashlight was also dropped into the pile.

“Yamcha,” she began, but he cut her off by grabbing her arm.

“It’s really dark in here,” he said, pulling her back toward the door. “I don’t want you to trip.”

“Yamcha,” she started again. “What do you want?”

“Well, uh…” Instead of answering he flicked off her flashlight and set it back down, this time in the mixing bowl of her mother’s machine. Or at least, that was her guess. They hadn’t quite made it back out of the room and it was still pitch black. “I was wondering…”

“ _Yamcha_. I have things to do today. Spit it out.”

“Bulma, I love you!” he yelled. She flinched, and suddenly the room seemed very small. His hand was still on her arm, and he was between her and the door, and she _really_ just wanted to get out. “Ever since we broke up, I’ve thought about you and I...I still love you, and I miss the way things were.”

“What?” was all she could say. Multiple PhDs and her brain was just shorted out. Figured.

He was undaunted, almost like she hadn’t said anything at all. “I saw you coming in here, and you were alone, so I grabbed the plant for you—I mean, because you like science, and it’s a plant—and I thought you’d talk to me if you were just alone, and I knew the lights were out in here so you might come fix them…” She could make out his silhouette from the light coming in around the door frame and she was pretty sure that Yamcha had just started rifling around in his pocket. “Bulma, what I’m trying to say is…”

Honestly, Bulma didn’t hear what he said. His hand was suddenly off of her arm, and there was suddenly no figure blocking the door (and the pile of stuff she had was heavy, dammit), so she dashed for the exit at top speed. With a hiss the unceasing daylight streamed in, and once the inside was illuminated she turned back to see a confused Yamcha, bent on one knee holding a box, facing where she’d once stood.

As the man turned around, the contents of the box caught the light with a glimmer, and even her static-filled head could pick up on what he must have said. That short in her brain? Well, it was very rapidly turning into an electrical fire, because anger seized her before she could process anything else.

“Are you serious?!” she shouted, and he scrambled up to standing. “You’re asking me to marry you?! _Now_?!”

“Bulma, I—”

She shoved the contents of her arms on the nearest flat surface, mixer be damned. “You followed me around all day with a fucking _bush_ , waiting for me to go off somewhere by myself, so you can corner me in a room with _no working lights_ , and ask me to be your wife?!”

“I mean, it wasn’t all day, just—”

“Shut up!” Bulma took a deep breath (not to calm herself, mind you, but because she knew this would need a lot of air). “Yamcha, we haven’t even so much as held hands in ages. We broke up three years before coming to Namek! _Three_!” She thrust her hand forward at him, three fingers raised and shaking. “The only things that you’ve been doing since then are try to get me to date you, and insulting my hobbies!”

“Hey!” Yamcha shouted, defensive. “I’ve been protecting this whole operation while your dad has been fixing the drought. That’s not nothing.”

“ _I_ have been fixing the drought too!” Bulma raged. “Which you would have known if you had bothered, at any point, to ask me about my life when I’m not getting suckered into eating lunch with you!” She was shaking, she couldn’t keep her hands steady as she grabbed her flashlight and shoved it in her pocket. “And you haven’t even protected us from anything, Yamcha! There has been no danger whatsoever!”

“I got down that mixer for you just now! You couldn’t have gotten that down by yourself.”

 _Damn_ it. “Yes, I could have. I was going to get a _step stool_. I don’t need to fly to be able to accomplish basic tasks.” Now she gathered up the mixer in her arms, cradling it and pointedly leaving the Ajisa plant where it lay. “All you have managed to accomplish since getting on the ship with us is trying to manipulate me into being _yours_ again.” She stormed out of the lab storage, turning around for one last jab. “Maybe when you decide to grow a spine you can find a woman who you won’t have to lure into a dark room to get her to care about you.”

Bulma stomped away, livid, but not before seeing his face drop. She wasn’t sure what the emotion was, but when she stopped to think about it later, it might have been despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.


	3. Guns Blazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma and her father both deal with the aftermath.

Deep in the bowels of the castle, two Saiyans watched in awe as an old human man fussed and fiddled with a piece of equipment they could not name. All around them stood decrepit machinery that was either on its last legs or had given up on functioning ages ago – and yet this old man had managed to resurrect one of these relics, filling the air with a low rumble.

“My word,” Dr. Briefs said, voice muffled, legs the only part of him visible from under the machine. “These stellar gyroscopes look like they haven’t run in decades.” Some alarming clangs rang out into the air, and Kakarot and Raditz exchanged looks as he continued. “What wonderful pieces of technology, though! I wish I had brought one of my notebooks.”

“Can you fix them?” Raditz asked, watching the old man shimmy himself out and dust off his pants.

Dr. Briefs hummed, juggling a wrench back and forth between his hands with practiced ease. “It’s a complicated puzzle. So many of your systems are in need of repair, and all of them critical parts…I think I could fix it, given enough time. And resources, of course!”

Kakarot grinned – he looked about ready to bounce up and down. “You should stay and fix them! Then we could go back home! Right Raditz?”

Even the more stoic Saiyan had to smile. “Indeed. Dr. Briefs, the royal family could use a mechanic as capable as you are.”

“Oh, my boys,” the old man chuckled, “I would love the chance to tinker more with your systems. But unfortunately, my business on the planet is not finished.” He pocketed his wrench, moving to take his coat, which the Saiyans were giving a wide berth. “In fact, that is the whole reason I came to your castle. I want to have a word with your prince about how he treats his subjects on Namek.”

“Uhh,” Kakarot started, “I don’t think that you should go talk to Vegeta. He’s not very… _kind_ to aliens.”

“Vegeta? Is that his name?”

Raditz, who had turned a rather remarkable pale color, elbowed Kakarot again. “ _Shut up_!” he hissed. To Dr. Briefs, he said, “My idiot brother is right. _Prince_ Vegeta doesn’t like visitors.”

A cold wind blew through the room then, rattling the machinery. Raditz and Kakarot froze, color drained from their faces, each standing up so straight that they looked more like mannequins than men.

Dr. Briefs opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. The air was suddenly filled with a suffocating electricity, and it had stolen the words from his mouth and the breath from his lungs. Something like a rope had wrapped itself around his ribs and was squeezing hard, lifting him off the ground.

“Please,” came a dark voice from behind him. “Tell me. What _else_ don’t I like?”

* * *

It took a few hours for Bulma to calm down, but not before ranting her head off to anyone unfortunate enough to get close to her. Plus, it turned out that Yamcha had in fact stolen one of Tsuno’s Ajisa plants, so she'd had to go apologize, and that just made her madder. Her mother managed to get the brunt of it, but as she’d started telling Bulma that she was excited for grandkids, the heiress stormed off once more. Tights was a bit more sympathetic, but Bulma realized that her sister was taking notes for her latest story, so she gave up on the whole affair and headed back to her workshop.   

Holed up, looking through all the scrolls she’d translated for some sign of intergalactic travel, Bulma had almost forgotten both about Yamcha and her father’s ludicrous antics when there was a sharp rap at the door.

“Come in,” she huffed.

It opened with a hiss and Tien stood in its place, blocking the light from outside, arms crossed.

“Tights is in her studio,” she said with a frown.

“I'm not here to see her,” he replied. “I'm here about Yamcha.”

(Wasn't it funny, though, that she didn't feel scared with Tien, despite him blocking the door. Bulma would bet that if she turned the lights out, she still wouldn't be.)

Bulma sighed. Of course he was. Dammit, and she liked Tien too. He wasn't a man to mince words or hedge around sensitive topics, which was very refreshing.

He didn't disappoint now. “That was cruel, what you did and said. He was idiotic, but you didn't have to drag him even further down.”

She stood, hands tightening to fists. “I just want him to leave me alone, and he won't. He hasn't for years. I hardly think you could say he didn't deserve it.”

Tien didn't argue that point. “I have never seen him this upset before, and as far as I'm concerned, that's your fault."

“He needs to get over it.” And get over her. Was three years not enough time?!

Now Tien was annoyed, glowering. “For fuck’s sake, Bulma, you could have let him down easy.”

The calm and patience she had been nursing for the last few hours was dangerously low, and she walked up and poked the warrior in the chest. “You have no right to tell me that I have to put up with a man who _literally_ cornered me in a dark room to get me alone with him. Whether you're his friend or not, that's fucked up, Tien.”

And it wasn't the first time he'd pulled a stunt like this either. She vividly remembered him showing up in the library one day with chocolate to try and ask her to dinner. Or the time when he had _just so happened_ to be outside her workshop when she left to go to bed, and _just so happened_ to have found a really pretty crystal that he wanted to give to her. Or the time that she'd lost her favorite water bottle and it turned up the next day when he tried to give it back to her.

To his credit, Tien didn't say anything.

Bulma turned and sat back down in her work chair. “If you aren't going to stop enabling him, you might as well both do something useful and help Dad shake down the Saiyan Prince, or whatever.”

The tension didn't exactly dissipate, but Tien did uncross his arms. “What are you talking about?”

Bulma waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the castle ship. “You know. Saiyans, royal family, landed to give the Namekians a hard time or whatever. My dad went to go ask the Prince to _do more for his people_.”

Tien scoffed. “Yeah. Like there's a Prince anyway.” He rolled his eyes now, moving to lean against the door frame, letting more light in. “No one I've talked to thinks he actually exists. Even the Saiyans in town get shifty about it.”

“Well, maybe he does. I don't know.” Another sigh as she turned around. “I'm not apologizing to Yamcha. He needs to apologize to me.”

She wasn't sure what the expression on his face was, but he turned and took a few steps out.

“Tien?” Once he'd looked back, she said, “I'm happy for you and Tights. I think you're a good match.”

He smiled for a moment, then buried it under that weird expression again. “You and Yamcha could be too.” Then he left for good.

Bulma sat at her desk, finally alone again. “I doubt that.”

* * *

Tien had been gone quite a while, and Bulma’s grumbling had calmed down to almost nothing by the time dinner had come and gone. She had barely begun to consider dredging up some leftovers when the door to the workshop flung open without warning.

“Bulma!” her mother shouted in a panic, bursting into the room, Tights not far behind. “It’s terrible!” She swept her daughter up in a tight hug, pulling her out of the chair, pencils flying.

“Mom?!” Bulma gasped. Her mother was weeping into her shoulder. "What the hell? What’s wrong?”

Her sister hung behind, but the worry shone on her face. “We just got a message from Dad.” She held out a datapad, which Bulma took.

_In the castle. Need an engineer. Prince leaves soon._

“They’ve got him kidnapped!” shrieked Mrs. Briefs. “They’re going to take him away!”

But Bulma was already formulating a plan, the shortest path to the castle calculated, amount of time needed to load charges into the guns and grab some provisions, medicine, water. They layout of the castle-ship was a wildcard, but it probably had a dungeon, or a tower for captives. It was a ship, she could reprogram any locks, get him out, get him home. Saiyans gone mostly, try to get back before they all got home too...

Bulma wriggled her way out of her mother’s clutches, laying her hands on the side of her crying face. “Mom, listen to me. I’m going to get Dad back. Okay?”

She stopped wailing abruptly. “What?”

“What?!” Tights shrieked. “That’s idiotic!”

Now she was running around her workshop gathering things she would need, capsulizing whatever she thought might help. “The message said Dad needs an engineer. There’s only one of those left at the compound, right?” She holstered a raygun on her hip, then a second, finally a third on a sling. Overkill, maybe, she didn’t care at this point. “And I promised him I’d go.”

“Are you _nuts_?!” Bulma picked up a fourth raygun and her sister yanked it from her hands, setting it back on the shelf it came from. “You’ve got no idea what you’re getting into!”

“Can’t you ask one of the village warriors for help?” her mother pleaded. “Or Tien, or Yamcha?”

Bulma scoffed, shook her head. “No time.” Namekians were afraid of the castle, Tien didn’t believe Prince existed. Yamcha was _Yamcha_. Pockets full of capsules, she turned and flung her arms around her family. “I love you guys. Dad and I will be back soon, okay?”

“You had better,” her sister sniffled.

“I'm a genius,” Bulma said, pulling away with a reassuring smile. “I can do anything.”

* * *

By the time she tore off on a hover bike, most of the compound was shuttered in, ignoring the eternal sunshine in a bid to get some sleep. It seemed wrong to be making a dramatic rescue when it was still light out—Tights was probably having a fit about the lack of atmosphere. Or maybe just about the fact that her sister was driving straight into a nightmare. Who knew.

Still, despite the warnings from her family Bulma wasn't thinking about the danger. Her brain was running away from her, scheming of its own will with little input from the rest of her.

(Jesus, where did Yamcha get off anyway. Asking her to marry him. What did Yamcha even know about marriage? He'd been terrified of woman when they'd met.)

She had even managed to block out any thoughts about what dire straits her father could be in. No, as the castle ship loomed on the horizon all she could see was the sequence of events leading to their dramatic escape, because any heiress to a company had to have some flair for the dramatic, right?

The longer she drove, the more castle she could see. Surprisingly, the closer she got the darker it became, despite being nowhere near the night-side of the planet. Maybe the ship had some sort of advanced shielding that could maintain a day-night cycle.

(Imagine her. Bulma Briefs, tied down to the most boring man in the galaxy. It was bad enough being misunderstood. Worse being Mrs. Yamcha. _Gag_.)

A glance at the clock built into the hover bike told her she'd been driving about an hour, and she'd guess she was less than five minutes out. It was really dark now, but she still hasn't figured out exactly what could be causing it. Holograms? Either way, it made for a much better rescue mission atmosphere.

(Where had he even gotten a ring anyway?!)

She slowed down as the base of the castle-ship finally came into view. It was absolutely breathtaking. The architecture was phenomenal, something out of a fairy tale, but to her trained eye she could see the machinery and mechanics needed to get it to fly. Looked like some of the towers were engines. Probably drove so that the “roof” was the front, like the pointed end of a rocket. Or maybe it was more like a mothership, designed to spin around a central axis as it moved. If she was lucky, she'd get a chance to find out.

No, no. Bulma shook that thought out of her head. This was hardly the time to marvel at the engineering. She had a job to do, and the first step was figuring out how she was going to get to her father.

“Well,” she said to herself, unloading a plasma rifle she'd stashed under the bike, “I did promise to go in guns blazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter this time, I know! I'd rather have lots of little chapters than make you all wait for one big one, though. 
> 
> Also—this story is not beta'd, so forgive my mistakes!


	4. The Blaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma keeps her promise and storms the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, I know, but I didn't want to leave you guys hanging! One more chapter before...the confrontation!

Pressing lightly against the door with her rifle, Bulma was surprised when it swung open. For starters, she hadn’t expected a door designed to withstand the vacuum of space to be on hinges, let alone the fact that the Saiyans inside were holding someone captive. Bad strategy not to expect a rescue mission, she thought. (Unless it was a trap.)

Peeking through the crack of the door, there was no sign of activity, so she slowly pushed the door open just enough to let her shimmy in, gun first. Everything was quiet, with the glow from what looked like a star map projected on the wall. The castle was immense...if she wanted to find her father in time, she’d have to start searching soon, and strategically. 

All thoughts were wiped from her mind when she heard footsteps and voices from around the corner. Quick, quick. Bulma glanced around and saw some heavy curtains, probably blocking a closet or servant nook. She dove into it, holding back coughs against the dust she scattered. 

A prim and proper voice was just becoming clear now. A man. “Sire,” it was saying, dejected and exasperated, “I believe that if you would listen but a moment to–” 

“No.” The interruption was a harsh, angry voice. Deep. Male. It sent chills through Bulma’s spine. “Our scouts returned with the machinery we need. The castle will be fine until we reach home.” 

“Hardly enough,” a raspy man interjected. “And it won’t help us without an engineer. Sire.” The last was added almost as an afterthought, as though the speaker had been on the receiving end of a glare. 

Then a growl, perhaps from an animal, filled the room. The harsh voice, presumably the Prince, spoke again. “We are not freeing the man. There are no outsiders allowed in the castle.”

There was a brief shuffling. “Excuse me Sire,” another man chimed in. “Raditz and I watched him when he first came in–”

“–Shut up, Kakarot!” hissed a new, fourth voice. 

Nevertheless this Kakarot fellow was undeterred. “We watched him fix something in the engine room in minutes. Something that had been broken for years.”

“Please,” drawled the Prince, clearly seething. “Tell me more about how you two failed to protect the castle against an intruder!” He was yelling now, and that growl was back (in his voice, Bulma realized, the growl was the prince). Something was crackling in the air, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. “And then you buffoons let him into the room with all of our machinery! You are lucky I have not had you two executed!

“Raditz, Kakarot, Nappa. Leave us for a moment,” the prim voice said quickly. There was a brief clatter – perhaps a salute with a weapon? Then footfalls moving toward her hiding place. Hopefully Saiyans couldn’t hear people’s racing heartbeats, particularly as they stopped right in front of her curtain. She clutched a ray gun in each hand, trying not to shake. They were designed to drain energy, prevent movement, stop blasting. If they worked the same way on the Saiyans as they did on her human friends, she might have a few seconds to get away from them and find her father...

From afar, the conversation continued. “Sire, that is an old man, and if what Bardock’s sons say is true, a competent engineer. He could be useful. Hardly dangerous.” 

The Prince, huffed. “You know nothing of danger. You are weak, and you cannot fight. I only allow you to remain on this ship because you are my kin, Tarble.” 

“I know this, and am grateful as always, Sire,” Tarble said, sounding much more sincere than Bulma would have been. “But I would like to think that, kin or not, you would not have kept me on your ship so long if you didn’t see value in my opinion.”

The pair was silent now, for quite a while. Slowly, the crackling and cold were ebbing from the air. 

“Brother,” Tarble began again, softer, “If you didn’t agree with me on some level, you would have killed that man, not locked him up.” 

Another huff. “Fine. I will keep him alive until the ship is fixed. But as soon as he is no longer a useful engineer, he will leave the castle. It remains to be seen if that’s alive or dead.” 

“Understood, Sire.”

Heavy footfalls trailed off in another direction, taking with it the last of the chill and the electricity. Lighter steps moved toward her and the guards just outside her curtains. 

Tarble spoke with a clap of his hands. “Raditz, Kakarot, I don’t think I need to explain how grateful you should be that you are not piles of ash. Go check on our guest, we must set him up with some quarters. Nappa, you’re with me. We have business to attend to before liftoff.” More footsteps, then, leaving her area. But it wasn’t enough. Someone had remained behind.

Bulma’s mind was racing as much as her heart now, thinking, planning, plotting. Stealing her father was a short-term solution. A longer-term solution was needed. No engineer, no leaving, rampage of revenge coming back. No father, no drought solution. Namekians die. She could help Namek, but wasn’t her brainchild, wouldn’t be as easy, she wasn’t good with people. Father was old, might not survive harsh treatment. The solution was just at the back of her mind!

“Well,” said Raditz, interrupting her train of thought, “That went better than expected.” 

“I’m glad Vegeta didn’t kill the old guy,” Kakarot said. He was far too cheery for a man who’d just received a palpable death threat. “I like him.” 

“Come on. Let’s go get him.” 

The solution! It had exploded in her, like a firework. Now was her chance! Bulma yanked back the curtain. Two men stood in front of her, turning around in a blur. She managed to shoot them both, one in the back and one in the chest. They went flying with a yelp, landed in a pile on the floor, separated from their weapons. But the two warriors acted fast, both scrambling to reach out with a palm and blast her. 

Nothing happened. 

“What the hell?!” shouted the short-haired one, Kakarot, looking at his hand, shaking it out like it had a bad cramp. 

“I can’t blast or stand!” the other, Raditz yelled. “What were we shot with?!” 

Kakarot was still struggling to move, looking at her aghast. “Raditz, that’s a woman!” 

Guns still trained on the men, Bulma locked her eyes on Raditz. He seemed smarter. “The engineer is my father. You are going to take me to him, and he is leaving this castle.” 

“Fuck you!” 

Bulma shot Raditz again, sending him flying this time into a staircase. With the double dose, this time he couldn’t get up at all, just groaned and cursed her. “That wasn’t a request.” 

Kakarot was smiling in spite of himself. “Raditz, she’s like a Saiyan woman!” 

“Kill her! Or the Prince will kill _us_ when he finds out _we let in another intruder_!” 

Eyes wide, Kakarot reached a hand out, but again nothing happened. “Damn!” 

“Listen to me,” Bulma started. “You have my father locked away. He’s the only one keeping the people on this planet alive. But you’ve got a much better engineer standing here, pointing a gun at you.” She wiggled the weapon to prove her point. The two Saiyans were watching her, enrapt and a little nervous. “I’m the one who made these guns that took your powers away, and I’m much better with spacecraft. Let him go and I will fix your ship.” 

“Raditz, I like her,” Kakarot whispered.

“You like everybody who tries to kill you,” he shot back from the floor. “Fine! Whatever! Kakarot, take her to the old man.” 

“Better do it fast,” Bulma drawled as the short-haired Saiyan managed to get up on shaky legs. “Wouldn’t want your prince coming along, would you?” 

“This way,” Kakarot said, hobbling off as quickly as he could. Bulma followed behind him, but not before shooting Raditz a third time just as he was able to pick his head up. (“The fuck!”, he shouted). He was definitely smarter, and she didn’t want him following once he recovered.

She and the Saiyan wound their way through corridors and hallways and up into the tower, Bulma’s gun pressed against his back. She’d turned down the ray power on it and set it to continuous pulse. If it was doing its job it was hitting Kakarot with small blasts over and over, preventing his energy from completely recovering.  

After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, Bulma found herself in what could only be the brig. Most of the cells were open, but one had a crackling forcefield blocking the entrance.

“Dad!” Bulma shouted. 

“Bulma!” he called. “You got my message!” 

She turned to the Saiyan. “Let him out. Now.” 

Kakarot nodded, walked over to a panel. Something fuzzy around his waist was starting to move...oh wow, a tail! He pressed it to a sensor near the forcefield, and it blinked out of existence. 

She ran to her father just as he stepped past the confines of the cell, throwing her arms around him for a moment, before quickly locking her gun back on the Saiyan, who laughed sheepishly and threw his hands up. 

“We’re getting out of here,” she said. 

Kakarot frowned. “But you said–” 

“I know what I said.” She took a breath. “I’m not doing anything for you until I know he’s safe.”

Out in the hall, there were loud voices echoing, clattering and thunks. The temperature was dropping rapidly. Fuck. New plan. New plan! 

Bulma shoved her father suddenly, making him yelp and fall into the open cell he’d just left. Then, she dove in after him. Alarms began to siren ( _weapon alert, cell 12, weapon alert_ ) and the forcefield came up. The electricity in the room was starting to make the lights flicker, and Bulma could see her breath. The voices were getting closer, more insistent—she could identify Tarble from before, and maybe the one called Nappa. Raditz even had managed to recover. Were they pleading?

“Bulma! What are you doing?!” her father shouted over the noise. Kakarot yelled too and lunged toward the control panel, but it seemed he couldn’t override it.

“I’m keeping us both alive!”

“Bulma, he’s coming! You have to get away from here before he finds you!” 

So much energy in the air was making her skin hum, and as the thundering footsteps drew nearer the lights went out, as though their power was being siphoned off by something. Even the alarms stopped. 

Eerie silence, only the glow of the forcefield. But that dim light was enough to illuminate the large, dark shape as it ripped the door to the brig off its hinges. 


	5. Don't Be Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all first meetings go well.

Bulma’s brain didn't process properly when she first saw the dark shadow looming in the door. Her senses were streaming a tidal wave of fact at her all at once. Large. Too tall to be human. Angry. Hard to make out details. Roaring. It was difficult to tell in the dim light.

The figure lunged for Kakarot first and the Saiyan crumpled as a bright beam of energy threw him into the wall. The shouting from before was loud—through the door emerged two Saiyans she didn't recognize, and Raditz. They all were yelling over each other, at the new figure. She couldn't make anything out over the noise.

The monster had thrown Kakarot’s body away from the control panel, where Raditz rushed to his side. Closer to the light of the force field she could almost make out hints of features. It seemed to be wearing gloves. A cape of some sort. Beyond that was still a blur. In a rage, the creature was mashing buttons, trying desperately to do something, but clearly failing. Whatever had sapped the electricity from the room seemed to be preventing the machinery from responding. That same electricity now filled the air, making it hard to breathe, to think straight. 

In a whirl, the beast turned to face the forcefield. Bulma couldn't help herself, she flinched and nearly dropped her guns. The field itself muddled the details but she could tell with absolute certainty that this creature was NOT Saiyan. Large fists crashed into the energy barrier holding them in, keeping him out. 

She could feel hands on her shoulders, gripping her tightly, and her father’s voice was shouting something, lost in the cacophony. It was so cold, she could see her breath. She needed a better weapon. Shoving the twin pistols at her father, she swung her plasma rifle out of its back holster. Bulma trained it on the beast, trying not to shake, fingers on the trigger. No telling when or if the barrier would fall. 

“Get out!” the creature boomed, cutting through the din, fists pounding relentlessly. It’s whole body was sparking. “ _Get! Out!_ ” 

The field was starting to crackle under the strain. The Saiyans had raced around, a short slim one throwing himself on the controls, Raditz and Kakarot with a tall bald one trying to work their arms around the beast’s arms, getting thrown every which way but not giving up. 

When the forcefield dropped, she pulled the trigger reflexively. Twin blasts shot past her head, her father’s work. Hit square in the chest, the creature reared back, the Saiyans howling as they struggled to hang on. The sparks and glow of its body was starting to recede as its energy was sapped. They could breathe.

In tandem, the Briefs bolted for the door. Ten meters to safety. Six meters. Four. Almost!

There was another thundering roar from behind them and then a quaking. Boom. She lost her footing, her father barrelled into her from behind. Crashing to the floor. Scrambling to get back up.

Suddenly she lost her momentum. A rope had wrapped around her ribs and before she could register the movement she’d been thrown. 

“Bulma!” 

Gun clattered. The air was knocked out of her when she landed, skidding into something warm. A body, one that was trying to get her back on her feet. Only one more pistol at her hip as backup.

“Kakarot! Leave her!” the tall Saiyan (Nappa, from before) was shouting. 

Gasping for breath, Bulma looked up to see her father thrown violently by the beast, landing in the cell once more, field flaring back to life. A blast of energy sailed out, her rifle and the dropped twin pistols burnt to ash. All for nothing. 

“No!” she shrieked, struggling against the arms holding her up. The other Saiyans had joined Kakarot now, all helping immobilize her.

Burning blue light illuminated the room as the creature, standing tall, ignited another energy blast and aimed it at her chest. The beam cast the beast’s whole face into silhouette, lines and edges coming into clear definition for the first time. The brow ridge protruded grotesquely. Eyes lined with what looked like blood, deep black. The nose was all wrong, the mouth had fangs protruding, face set in cold fury. A monster in the shape of a Saiyan. 

But she was Bulma Briefs. She'd faced plenty of monsters in her day. 

She steeled herself, trying to make herself look taller. “Let me and my father go immediately.” 

The beast growled. “I should kill you where you stand.” 

“If you do that,” she warned, “you will kill everyone on this planet.” 

The creature didn't seem phased. “What happens to my subjects does not concern you.”

Bulma blanched, startled. Yes, come to think of it, she recognized the voice, from before when she was hidden in the curtains. “You're the Prince.”

He didn't let up. Just leveled that icy stare at her. “Make a better case for yourself, or I will bore a hole in your chest.” (Directly behind her, Kakarot flinched.)

Bulma braced herself again. “If you kill me, my father will never work for you and you won't be able to fix your ship.”

“Sire,” cut in Tarble, revealing himself as the last slim Saiyan, “I should remind you that if what Raditz says is true,  _ both _ these humans are engineers.” (Tarble was dangerous. Anyone that calm needed careful consideration.)

“Well, we only need one.” The Prince swung his arm over to the forcefield, aimed now at the cell. “Perhaps then I should kill him and keep the woman. He seems to have brought more trouble that he is worth.”

“You said you’d keep him alive until you fixed the ship,” Bulma spat, the conversation from downstairs still fresh in her mind. “Are you going to go back on your word?”

The Prince’s snout set in a hard line at that, and before she could blink he fired.  The beam pierced the forcefield effortlessly. Her father shouted over Bulma's scream, crumpling and holding a mangled leg. 

“You monster!” she shouted, trying to wrest her arms free. No success. Heart pounding. Blood rushing in her ears. Hard to think. Couldn't breathe again.

Tarble tentatively approached the furious creature. “Sire, the engineer will require healing if he is to stay on the ship.” (He wasn't dead. He was fine. He was fine he was fine he was fine.) The prim man glanced her way, almost nonchalant, before returning his gaze to the Prince. “In the pods, Sire.”

The Prince’s face contorted and another blast appeared in his hand, trained on her father's quivering form. He was groaning, the sound almost muffled under the hum of the barrier. 

“Don't kill him!” she screamed, eyes burning. “I'll fix your ship, just let him go!” 

The beam disintegrated, and the creature walked toward her. She fought the urge to shrink back, willed her chin to stay high. There was a sneer on the Prince’s snout. “What was that?” he mocked. 

She took a breath. (Calm. Calm. Panic did not help. Her heart needed to come back under control.) “If you let him go, I will do your repairs.” Bulma fixed him with a glare. “But if you kill him, I swear to you that I will destroy everything here and shoot myself at the first opportunity. No engineer, no repairs, no Saiyan travel.” Behind her, one of the Saiyans sucked in a breath. 

“Bulma.” Her father had pulled himself up to a sitting position, leaning against the cell wall and cradling his wounds. His voice was weak. “Do not do this. You're needed here, with your family.”

The Prince huffed, eyeing her weapon at her hip, then glaring at her once more. “You would take his place?”

She blinked. “He's my father.”

A growl. “He is a fool for coming here. And so are you.” At the creature’s nod, Tarble pressed a command into the control panel and the force field around her father fell. Bulma rushed for him, the Saiyans miraculously letting her go. 

Her stomach churned as she fell to her father's side. She could smell the burnt flesh from the blast. Fuck, she hoped they had some senzu beans at the complex. Still, she threw her arms around him. “You're going to be okay, Dad.”

“Please, my dear,” he pleaded (but his voice was so soft, so weak…). “Please. I'm old, I've lived my life.”

“I'll get out of here.” Bulma squeezed him one last time. “I promise. I love you.”

The Prince made a noise of disgust, and as if commanded the Saiyan fighters had tromped over. “Get this weakling off of my ship,” the Prince growled. “We need to keep moving.”

Her father was hefted up by Nappa, leg dangling uselessly to the side. “Do not hurt him!” Bulma shrieked as they disappeared through the door, Kakarot and Raditz lagging behind. The force field flared to life again in front of her, boxing her in.

“Take him to the village,” the Prince growled. “Tarble. Prepare our...guest.” With a sneer, the creature turned to follow after his men, cape swirling with a flourish. Tarble nodded obediently, casting her a glance of his own. Perhaps the energy beam was distorting her vision, but he almost looked sorry as he, too, left the brig. 

Bulma Briefs sank to the floor of the cell, hugging her knees to her chest. Her whole body seemed to be shaking, residual adrenaline and shock. She closed her eyes against the burning sensation of tears and tried not to think about her family. 

Finally, it was quiet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the support! Also, thank you to whoever nominated me for the TPTH Annual Awards!!! I am really honored, and glad that you all like this silly story!


	6. Takeoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma is introduced to her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I have taken up this story for NaNoWriMo 2017, and as such for the time being my chapters are going to be mostly unedited. I'll come back to them once November is over!

Bulma had been in the brig for an hour and thirty seven minutes after they'd taken her father. She'd tried blasting the force field with her remaining pistol, but it hadn't resulted in anything more than setting off the weapon alert alarm for five minutes before, presumably, it was remotely shut off. She had also inventoried all of the capsules in her pockets, but there was nothing in her food or medical stores that could help. Not even a chocolate bar. 

What did help a little was knowing that by now, her father had been brought back to the village by the Saiyans, assuming they'd kept their word. Tights and her mother would already be taking care of him, fixing his leg, having him rest. They had to have more senzu beans somewhere. If not, the Namekians would heal him, she was sure of it. Worst case, Dragon Balls, but hopefully it wouldn't come to that. 

At one hour and thirty eight minutes, she could hear footsteps echo up the stairs, not hindered by the door, which still lay on the ground after the Prince had so _charmingly_ ripped it off. Bulma stood tall, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation. 

But only Tarble walked through the door, calm and content, striding toward her. “I am terribly sorry, madam,” he began as he approached. “This is certainly not how I would welcome a new member of the crew, had I been given the choice.”

Bulma frowned as he changed direction just slightly, reaching a small panel next to the cell and punching in some buttons. The energy of the force field blinked out of existence. Instinctively, she trained her pistol on him. 

Tarble held his hands up quite leisurely. “I assure you that I have no intention of harming you. I am showing you to your room.”

She scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly, but I should point out that I have no ability to fight and likely couldn't hurt you if I tried.” He flashed her a smile. “As I am sure you figured out from listening to our conversation earlier?”

All right, so he was smart. Or at least, he paid attention, so he was still dangerous. But he seemed sincere enough, so she holstered her weapon. “I'm getting a room?”

“Well, of course.” Tarble shook his head. “You can't expect us not to provide quarters for our new engineer. Ah!” He lay a hand on his forehead and chuckled. “I seem to be getting ahead of myself. I am Tarble, the chief of staff for the ship.” With a flourish, he thrust out his tail between them, almost like a handshake. 

Bulma just stared at it for a moment, then glanced up at the Saiyan himself. 

Tarble didn't seem phased, pulling back. “Forgive me. Proper Saiyan protocol indicates that we grasp tails, but it seems your species lacks them. What is the typical greeting in your culture?”

In spite of herself, Bulma felt a thrill go through her. A small tidbit of an alien culture was hard to pass up. “We have lots of greetings on my planet, but where I am from we bow. And my name is Bulma Briefs.” She bent, and Tarble followed suit.

As he straightened, he smiled once more. Stepping back toward the staircase, Tarble waved her over to follow. Just outside the doorway, two more Saiyans stood. 

“Bulma,” Tarble began, “these two are Raditz and Kakarot, sons of Bardock.” 

They began a slow descent back toward the main castle.  Tarble took the lead, Bulma following and the two soldiers making up the rear. Raditz and Kakarot were talking amongst themselves in hushed tones, just quiet enough that Bulma couldn’t make anything out. Tarble didn’t seem to notice. If anything, he seemed downright cheerful.

Now that she wasn’t in such a hurry, she was much happier to look around a bit. Superficially, the walls and windows resembled that of a traditional castle – stones, glass. But the caulking had a faint glow and shimmer, probably some sort of metal alloy to keep out the dangers of space. When she dared rap on it, the glass revealed itself to be some sort of polymer similar to the one on the Namekian pods.

Once out of the tower to the brig, Tarble led her and the Saiyans through another set of winding corridors, passing the screens she’d seen on her way in. Other members of the crew were beginning to make an appearance now, Saiyan men of all sorts and uniforms milling about as they pursued their errands. Their chief of staff waved as they passed, every now and again calling a greeting or a reminder. Bulma was acutely aware of all of them. She couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her back.

Eventually, they came upon a grand staircase, one that parted halfway up to lead to two different wings. The architecture was absolutely beautiful, with some sort of marble lining the steps and deep obsidian wood making up the banisters.

“I must say, Lady Briefs,” Tarble began as they moved up the stairs, “We haven’t had this much excitement around the ship in years. Your arrival seems to have sparked something.”

Her eyes followed a group of three men, also soldiers, blatantly staring at her as she walked past. “I noticed.” 

There was a grumbling from behind her. When she turned to look, Raditz had a rather sour expression, like a kid who’d had his candy taken away. Kakarot was grinning ear to ear, though, looking right at her so earnestly that it made her uncomfortable.

They headed up the leftmost branch of the stairs and it was only a few more minutes walking down a straight hallway before they reached an area that looked like crew quarters. Most of the doors were blank, though a few were emblazoned with titles in ornate blue symbols. They finally stopped at the end, at a door marked similarly. 

Tarble waved his hand toward a smooth grey panel on the doorjamb. “These are the engineer’s quarters. If you could just place your hand on this panel, Lady Briefs, it will register you as the new owner of the room.”

Ah, seemed simple enough. She did as suggested and the panel glowed a deep blue color with a sharp trill. Then the panel faded into a pale brown as the door opened. Tarble stepped inside, and Bulma followed, with the two soldiers remaining outside.

Lights automatically turned on as they entered, revealing a large front room with screens, chairs, and multiple desks, seemingly a work room, though all of the surfaces had a coating of dust blanketing them. Tarble made a disapproving hum and pulled out a rag from his pocket to remove the offending filth.

“Don't you have cleaning bots to do that?” Bulma asked. Glancing around, she could see small doors along the walls that looked just the right size for an autonomous vacuum.

Undeterred from cleaning, Tarble shook his head. “As they are not a critical system, they haven't been repaired in quite some time.” (That wasn't going to do. She would need to fix that as soon as possible. Bulma Briefs did not clean things.) “Still,” he continued, “feel free to look at the rest of the quarters. They're yours now, after all.”

Bulma didn't see any real reason to argue with that. There were two more doors in the room. The first proved to be something like a bathroom, small and with many pipes coming out, though she couldn't really place what everything did without fiddling with all the controls. A project for later. The second door was another room, containing a table and two large nooks recessed into the walls. They were made of metal and looked almost like the synthesizers they used at the compound to make food, except that all of the text was in Saiyan script. Otherwise it was empty. Probably something like a kitchen, if she had to guess. Within said kitchen was two more doors, one that proved to be a closet and the other a bedroom, with a long flat bunk. Simple and utilitarian, and thankfully with what looked like a full-sized mattress. Surprisingly nice quarters for someone they’d conscripted.

She walked back out to the main room, where Tarble had divested all the surfaces of dust and was tossing his rag into a container embedded in the wall, presumably a disposal chute. 

“Satisfactory?” he asked, smiling when Bulma nodded. “Wonderful. A few details, then.” They strode back out into the hallway, Kakarot and Raditz hurriedly stopping whatever conversation they’d been having and falling in line behind them. The door to her new quarters slid shut with a graceful click. “You’re the only one with access to this room without further authorization, and only the Prince can call for that.” He turned to glance at her as they made their way back toward the main area of the ship. “The Prince has ordered Kakarot and Raditz to accompany you on your shifts until you prove trustworthy. Oh!” He waved at the pistol on her hip, looking quite apologetic. “We’ve also disabled your weapon within the castle walls. I hope you understand.”

Bulma sighed. “I do.” She had shot quite a few people since getting here after all. Now they were moving toward a new part of the ship, making a sharp right turn just before the grand stairs. “Where are we going?”

“Engineering,” Raditz grumbled, still quite sour. 

Tarble shot him a pointed look. “I hope you can forgive Raditz’s _tone_ , Lady Bulma.”

Kakarot perked up suddenly. “He’s just mad because you shot him!” (Raditz grumbled again, much quieter this time, vaguely sounding like _She shot you too, you idiot._ )

Bulma shrugged. “I would apologize, but you were going to kill me.”

Raditz made a defeated noise, but he at least looked a little bit less sour, at least until Kakarot elbowed him and snickered. Both jumped back to attention when Tarble cleared his throat. 

A few minutes more of walking and they reached a large set of double doors, very well fortified, emblazoned with a similar symbol as the one on her quarters. Bulma made a mental note to ask about translating the script. As they approached, the doors slid open with a hiss and Bulma gasped. “Oh, _wow_.”

She’d never seen an engine room as large as the one they were walking into, and certainly never seen an _engine_ as big. A large swath of floor and ceiling were missing to accommodate a large, pulsating cylinder of energy humming in the middle of the room, glowing the same blue as the panels and equipment—the warp drive. Dotting the periphery of the engine were many other ancillary systems that she couldn't place without closer inspection. Wow. Captive or not, she could not wait to sink her teeth into everything in here. 

But the grandeur only lasted for a moment. The drive was glowing, but the pulsations were erratic. There was a conspicuous layer of dust on top of all but a few of the panels. Most telling, it was devoid of people. 

“Weren't you taking off soon?” Bulma asked, wandering over to a panel. (More Saiyan script. This was going to be a challenge.)

Tarble had once again pulled out a rag and was furiously dusting everything within reach, but he looked up just long enough to reply. “Momentarily, actually.”

Bulma waved around at the empty room. “You've got no one to run the equipment.”

“We only have warriors and servants,” Kakarot chimed in. “We used to have engineers, but that was before...the accident.” 

“ _We’re not supposed to talk about that,_ ” Raditz hissed, elbowing his brother. 

Bulma glanced over at Tarble, who had let out quite the sigh as he tossed his rag into another trash receptacle, but any reply she could have made was drowned out by a great, deep humming and rattling. The pulsating warp engine was unaffected, but the noise was coming from far below it. Walking to the railing, Bulma looked down past the engine to see a secondary set of reactors, much smaller and beginning to glow. Probably some sort of sub-warp propulsion, if the main reactor wasn’t firing, or something just to get them off the ground?

Panels lit up with beeps, though some of them remained offline for the time being. Having no idea what any of it did, Bulma just walked around and watched them fire, already planning her excursions under the hood to check out wiring, functionality. She was willing to bet that there were other ancillary systems booting up—artificial gravity, for one. Pressurization against the vacuum of space, and life support. Maybe something to prevent the crew from smashing into things as the ship accelerated. God, she couldn’t imagine how they had managed to get this far without people to monitor all of these procedures. Who’d automated them? What happened if something went wrong?

Tarble cleared his throat, having disposed of his rag. “If you need me, I will be on the bridge.” He tapped a screen on the wall, a bright series of buttons coming into view. He indicated a large silver one in the middle. “This is a direct line to my station. Do let me know if there are any problems. Raditz, Kakarot, please assist our new chief engineer if needed.” The two warriors drew their spears to their chests, and with that Tarble strode out.

Sparing the three of them from the inevitable awkwardness, the ship lurched just then, the sounds of gears turning and steam escaping filling the room. A sudden ice lanced through Bulma, and she frantically glanced about for a window, something that would let her see to the outside. Nothing, though. They were dead in the center of the castle. 

“I hope we don’t explode again,” Raditz grumbled, eyeing a panel distrustfully. “I hate takeoff.” 

Her heart was pounding. Images and thoughts flashed through her head. Her father, wounded. The compound. Earth. Her mother. Tights. Her friends. Namekians, children, libraries, her tools, all the projects she’d ever wanted to do. Fuck, was she ever going to see any of them again? The blood was rushing to her head, she couldn’t breathe. She needed to breathe. There were witnesses. No way to contact her family. She needed a plan. Step one was to regain control. 

Seemingly unaware of the loud shouting in Bulma’s head, Kakarot trotted over to the same screen Tarble had pulled up, swiping over a few times before mercifully settling on what looked like the main viewscreen. She couldn’t make out the colors, the blues and greens rendered lifeless grey, just shapes. It was impossible to tell what direction they were facing. Another lurch, and they had flown up in the air, slowly at first but then gaining speed, tower first. In only a few seconds, they had risen up dramatically. Maybe, maybe if she squinted she could make out a village on the horizon...could it be the one where her family was? 

As the view on the screen began to darken, as they began to clear the atmosphere, Bulma wrapped her arms around herself and tried to regain composure, and hoped. 


	7. Day Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma settles into a routine.

The journey to their first destination, Arcose, was set to take about two weeks. Bulma set into a routine by the third day. Tarble had provided her with a Saiyan dictionary, a very decrepit stack of technical manuals, and, embarrassingly, children’s books designed to teach the basics. Their alphabet was made up of twenty one consonants and nine vowels and was fairly straightforward, but the vocabulary was difficult. More than once she'd had to call over her guards to translate a basic term. Thank goodness she'd picked up Galactic Standard while on Namek, or she'd really be screwed. 

Luckily, the actual mechanics came naturally to her. Electricity was one of the few constants in the universe (along with physics, gravity, and her unique ability to get into terrible situations). Wiring, piping, machinery, that was a language that made sense to her. It was interesting that the Saiyan technology was so convergent on Earth technology, but she supposed there were only so many ways to make a computer or a capacitor. Either way, her notebook was already full and she'd had to beg Tarble for another one.

Today was not much different than the others had been. She'd gotten up, ordered some food from the replicators (having taken a few hours to program in Earth recipes), and ate as she read some more of the manuals. The series of complicated tubes in her bathroom, while exotic, had basically amounted to a horizontal, misting shower, which was her after-breakfast pursuit. She missed the high water pressure, but at least she could control the temperature. Besides, she supposed she could rig the plumbing if she'd had enough time. Then, she'd change into a jumpsuit that she'd ordered from the other replicator, and head for the engine room.

Most of the stuff she'd repaired so far had been related to the ancillary engines. At first the tools she'd been given had perplexed her. How did Saiyans build starships without wrenches, or pliers? The knobs and levers in her tool kit were completely foreign. But it had only taken a few days for her to realize their functions. The round and curved object had an attachment that functioned like a ratchet. There was a small, white orb that worked as a torch, which had singed off all her knuckle hair the first day. Fortunately, mallets were universal. She'd yet to figure out what their replacements for nails and screws were, though. Everything on the ship she'd come across so far had been welded. 

The constant presence of her guards had been both her annoyance and her entertainment. Kakarot seemed determined to make friends with her from the get go. He didn't really understand anything she did, but he liked asking questions. It seemed that, while sort of dim, he had a rudimentary knowledge of all of the ship's systems, but had never really gotten a chance to dive into them. He also liked asking her about more random pursuits, like how strong the people on her planet were, and what kinds of foods she ate. 

Raditz had tried to keep her at arm's length, but apparently he was also wondering how the ship's systems worked, and actually appeared to grasp her explanations when Bulma talked about everything she was fixing. So by the third or fourth day Bulma was on the ship, he'd stopped sulking near the door and started meandering over with his brother. He didn't seem much happier to have her around, though.

Bulma was elbows deep in a panel, trying to repair some fried wires under the inertial dampers, when a message came to life on a nearby screen. “Bridge to Bulma,” Tarble chimed in. 

She pulled herself away from the machinery and walked toward the screen. “What's going on?”

The confusion was quickly replaced with a rather somber look that instantly put her on guard. “His Majesty has requested an audience with you this evening.”

God damn. She'd been hoping to avoid ever having to see him again. Though she didn't get much leeway to explore, she had gathered that the Prince spent most of his time sequestered away doing whatever beasts did and otherwise not paying any attention to what was going on.

The disdain must have shown on her face, because Tarble frowned. “I should clarify that it was not actually a request.” 

“Of course it wasn’t.” Bulma resisted the urge to rub her temples. “Are there details, or am I supposed to stew all afternoon?”

He cleared his throat. “You are to meet him in the throne room, and then join him for the evening meal, I am told.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

“...That would not be advised.”

Never mind, she  _ was _ rubbing her temples. God, if there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was men demanding she eat with them. “Why does he want to meet with me?” (Behind her, she could hear Kakarot mumbling something to Raditz, but she elected not to hear him.) 

Tarble’s mouth twitched briefly. “I believe he wishes to...clarify your standing on this vessel.” 

Yeah, she didn’t much like the sound of that. 

A sharp clattering set off behind the chief of staff, and he snapped his attention to something on the bridge with a glare. “Excuse me, Lady Bulma, I have to go. The sons of Bardock will escort you when the time comes.” 

The screen blinked out suddenly, with no time to argue. Bulma groaned and rested her forehead against the wall for a moment. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Eventually, she turned around. Her guards both seemed to agree on an expression for once and wore identical cringes. Even Raditz looked sorry for her as he said, “You might want to eat something before dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one! The semester has just ended so hopefully over winter break I can get back to working on this!


	8. Ferocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt is made at dinner.

The end of her official shift came more quickly than she would have hoped. Bulma had managed to get one of the quantum drive system errors translated, and as she was escorted toward the throne room she was mentally planning the next day's work. Perhaps more importantly, she'd also managed to dig up a map of the ship. Hopefully she could spend her off hours translating and figuring out how to get off the vessel.

Her, Raditz, and Kakarot were making their way down another hallway, this time on the other side of the grand staircase from engineering. The two Saiyans were muttering to each other in front of her. She was all but ignoring them—honestly, for warriors they had a surprising talent for gossiping. After her call with Tarble, they'd spent the entire rest of the day chatting about things that the Prince did when he was angry. Threatening to kill people, actually killing people, yelling about killing people...really, it was a lot more murder than she wanted to think about.

It wasn’t long before they reached their destination. In the center of the hallway was a large door, much taller than was practical. Heavy-looking, too. Though there was no sign for the door, it was obvious that something grandiose lay behind it, and what could be more grandiose than a throne room? Kakarot and Raditz each grabbed a large metal knocker, in the shape of an ape, and together they huffed and groaned and pulled it open.

The room was cavernous and yet far too small as Bulma entered through the door, helpfully escorted by the brothers Bardock. Set up along the other wall, past decorative columns and frayed tapestries, was the Prince, just as beastly as she had seen him before. His throne was large, made of the same jet black wood she’d seen on the staircase, sharp lines of silver carved into it. Tarble, for his part, was positioned prominently at his right hand, standing tall and prim as ever. Honestly, it seemed more like a ballroom than a throne room, but Bulma supposed she could chalk that up to cultural differences.

Kakarot and Raditz took up positions by the door, leaving Bulma to walk the long path to the throne by herself, the only sound the click of her shoes against the floor. Head high, gaze sharp. Her first impression on this creature had been under duress, but she was going to show that she was a force to be reckoned with.

As she drew closer, the Prince shifted his position slightly, straightening. Now that she wasn’t suffering from so much adrenaline coursing through her, she was able to pick out a few more details about his appearance. The facial features seemed almost ape-like, as though he were some Saiyan hybrid, but the eyes were too intelligent to be a mere animal. His hair was long, black, with a prominent widow's peak, spikes reaching well past the shoulders. As before, he wore a cloak, falling into a cape behind him, deep blues, blood reds, and shimmering golds. Beneath the cloak was a set of armor, superficially similar to the ones she had seen the soldiers wearing. Trousers and boots of jet black, with prominent shoulder guards, and what looked like a metal skirt along the outside of the legs. But differently from the others, the upper chest plate was patchy. Large swaths of the torso were uncovered, revealing a well defined bare chest surrounded, shockingly, by crimson fur. The arms were equally covered, though he was wearing long black gloves, so the full extent was unknown.

As she approached, Tarble stepped forward slightly and cleared his throat. “Behold his majesty, Prince Vegeta, rightful ruler of the Saiyan Race, conqueror of Frieza, and King of the empire.” He gave a dramatic flourish toward his brother, bowed, and stepped back once again.

Bulma stopped a few meters from the throne, where a long tapestry lay, trailing like a red carpet. When she took a step onto the fabric, the Prince frowned, but she didn't move.

There was a tense silence for a moment, as both parties looked at each other. No doubt he was sizing her up.

He spoke without warning. “You have not repaired the warp engines yet.”

Well. So much for manners. At least he was direct. “It has been three days, and your chief of staff tells me they've been malfunctioning for over a year. You really can't expect me to work miracles.” Bulma whipped out a datapad that she'd stored in her pocket. “I've repaired three auxiliary systems and increased your ancillary engine efficiency by 27%.”

He didn’t seem assuaged by this information, instead ignoring her completely. “You are only on this ship because of my mercy, mechanic. I suggest you speak accordingly.”

Yeah, right. “I have said nothing but facts! Look for yourself!”

She thrust the pad out, and Tarble dutifully retrieved it from her and delivered it to the Prince. It looked small in his large hands, and his face turned up in a sneer as he glanced through it. He looked to his brother, who gave a curt nod. This did not seem to be the answer he wanted, though, and the Prince reared up and threw the datapad against the wall beside him.

Bulma gasped. “All of today's work is on that!” she shrieked. She made to go after it, but a great growling from the throne stopped her in her tracks. The Prince had stood up, paws still gipping the armrests of the throne, hunched over like an animal. Something cold lanced through Bulma, but it was quickly overwhelmed by hot anger.

“I kept you alive to fix the engines!” the creature roared, slamming a fist down into the throne, cracking it. “Nothing else!” Tarble made to speak, then, but the Prince swung out his arm and shoved him back. “No! Quiet!” Then he looked back at Bulma, rearing up to his full height. “If you want to make it off this ship alive, you will do that, mechanic!”

“I am an engineer, not a mechanic!” Bulma shouted, stomping after her data pad. Just as she was about to reach it, a flash of movement in front of her made her flinch back. She hadn’t even seen him move, he just blinked into existence between her and the data, crouched to the ground.

There was a clattering noise from behind her, and the Prince glared past her for a moment, eyes presumably on the guards by the door. Bulma didn’t dare to take her eyes off the beast in front of her, but she’d bet that they’d stood at attention with their spears just a bit too suddenly. The problem, then, was that there was a large, angry, powerful creature between her and her data, and she was almost too pissed off to care.

When the Prince set his eyes back on her, she fixed him with her own glare. “You’re in the way of my work.”

“I will not tolerate this backtalk from one of my subjects.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “I am not one of your subjects, _Your Majesty_.”

In response, he turned and shot an energy beam at the data pad, disintegrating it into ash.

Fuck it. _Fuck_. _It_. If she died she died, she was not putting up with this bullshit. She stomped forward toward him. “Look, you moron,” she shouted, hand slicing through the air by his nose, “You are already moving faster because of me. And I’d like to point out that I’ve had to learn a whole new fucking language in the last four days to do it! You need me to fix those engines, whether you like it or not!”

The room was silent for a moment. The Prince’s ferocity left for a moment, as he blinked at her, stared at her in disbelief.

From the corner, Tarble cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “Sire, I believe that dinner is served, if you could please compose yourself.”

The creature grit its teeth, but stood up anyway. He dismissively waved a hand at her, toward a nook in the corner where she presumed the food would be served.

Bulma’s jaw dropped. “You’ve threatened me, destroyed my work, and taken me as your prisoner, and now you want to have dinner with me? Are you insane?!”

“Starve, then!” he shouted, whirling around to Tarble. “If she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t eat at all!” He flew off toward the nook, feet not even grazing the floor as he went.

“Fine!” she shouted back after him. “But good luck getting working engines out of an emaciated engineer!”

Fists balled, she shot an angry look at Tarble, who for his part looked like a deflated balloon, and then turned back towards the guards. Raditz and Kakarot were just as wide-eyed as the Prince had been, staring at her as though she had grown a third head, the hair on their tails sticking up straight. They uselessly stood by as she threw her whole weight at the door to no avail, only snapping out of their stupor when Tarble shouted at them to assist.

On the walk back, they were silent as they walked in front of her, but constantly glanced back toward her, then at each other. This went on for nearly the whole walk, but Bulma in her incensed state was fed up with it by the time they got to the crew corridors. “What are you looking at?!” she shouted, making both of them flinch.

Kakarot was bold (or stupid) enough to answer. “Not even a Saiyan woman would be brave enough to talk back to Vegeta like that. Wow."

“Thanks,” she said dryly, walking toward her door and stepping inside. “I’m glad I meet your expectations for femininity.”

As she closed the door, she heard Raditz say, “I told her she should have eaten something.”

* * *

A few hours later, after she had tried to no avail to order something from the replicator, and just as she was trying to track down a map to sneak into the food storage, there was a chime at her door. In no better mood after not having eaten, she walked over and slammed it open.

Tarble looked nonplussed by the whole thing, yet as they made eye contact he seemed quite apologetic. “I regret that you have had such a bad interaction with the Prince,” he said simply. “But I do come bearing somewhat good news.”

“What?”

Tarble held out a datapad, new and fresh. “We make backups of your work from your notes. And more importantly,” he continued as she took the tool from him, “I have restored your food access.”

Bulma sighed. “Did he change his mind?”

The chief of staff shook his head. “The Prince may be the ruler of our species, but he is not the one with the access codes. As far as I am concerned, you are a member of our crew, if not a guest.” Tarble glanced out into the hallway for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. “And I must say, I’ve never seen someone leave him speechless before. Well done.”

She chuckled at that. “Well, I’m glad I was the one to do it.”

Her stomach decided to gurgle at that moment, and Bulma glanced down at it as Tarble laughed. “I suppose I should let you eat,” he said, stepping back from the door. “A warrior needs to keep up their strength, after all.”

She thought, briefly, of Tien and the others at the compound, shaking her head. “I’m hardly a warrior.”

“Well,” the chief of staff said with a wry smile as he walked off, “You’re certainly as ferocious as one.”

As he disappeared down the hall, Bulma took a moment to wonder about that, before deciding that food was more important. By the time she’d finished programming and replicating some chocolate cake, the comment had left her mind completely.


	9. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma makes a friend.

On Namek, there had been a surprising lack of activity given the circumstances. A week ago, Dr. Briefs had been haphazardly deposited back at the compound with little regard for safety, but once the initial shock had worn off and the Saiyan ship had absconded off-planet with his youngest daughter, nearly nothing had happened. His wife had gotten him the needed medical attention for the mangled leg (luckily, their crop of senzu beans was still going strong, after so little use for the past few years), and his eldest daughter had demanded help from the others, but it had been too late to track the kidnappers at that point.

His first step, of course, had been to find everyone and tell them what had gone on on the ship. The Namekians were kind and sympathetic, but seemed not to believe him when he said he’d met the Prince, who was also a beast. “No such thing is possible,” Moori had said simply. “The creature you met could not possibly have been Prince Vegeta. Saiyans do not transform.” They’d chalked it up to his injuries, and while they couldn’t deny that Bulma had been captured, they had no real way of catching up to them, not when their whole species was threatened with extinction. In his mad attempts to find help, he'd talked to everyone in the village and only succeeded in losing his hat and getting a peeling burn from the three suns.

The other humans were less kind. His wife and Tights needed no convincing, but the rest of them thought he’d lost it. To be frank, Dr. Briefs thought that at least _Puar_ would have believed him, given that the cat was a shapeshifter. But no. Apparently they’d spent enough time with the Saiyans visiting the village who had vehemently denied there being a prince on the ship, and that was enough for them. Tights had even talked to Tien to try to win him over, but that only led to a shouting match between the two.

There was only one person left in the compound he hadn't tried, and Dr. Briefs wasn't sure he wanted to open that can of worms, so to speak, thus at the moment he was holed up in his lab, where he hadn't left since getting patched up. Figuring out how to track the ship was the first and best option, as far as he was concerned. There had to be something, some sort of leakage from the engines, or energy signature of some kind…perhaps the map he saw...

There was a tentative knock at the door to the workshop, one that was far too meek to belong to any of his family members. Dr. Briefs waved a hand toward the door and it slid open, letting the light stream in from outside, but he didn't turn around, not when his visitor cleared his throat, not when he heard awkward shuffling of feet.

Normally, he wouldn't mind someone dropping in unexpectedly. Today, though, was different. “What do you want?” he said simply.

“Sir,” Yamcha began, “I want to help find Bulma.”

It was a blunt statement of intent, one that he suspected was out of character for the young man. He sighed and turned around. So much for the worms. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he nodded, looking sincere.

Dr. Briefs stared at the young man for a moment. “How do you think you can help?” As far as he could remember, Yamcha had never displayed any aptitude for engineering. Certainly had never come to the labs before, at least not when he was there.

“I'm not a genius,” Yamcha said. “I don't really understand what you're doing. But I know nobody else believes you, and I do, and I want to help get her back.”

“And?” asked Dr. Briefs. Intent was hardly enough when it came to mounting rescue missions. “What will you actually _do_ to help, lad?”

A bit of the conviction in the young man's face was lost, replaced instead by apprehension. “Well, uh, I can follow orders if you need things done? And I can work on convincing everyone else around to help out?”

Dr. Briefs pictured his daughter in this scenario. He suspected she'd be rolling her eyes, dismissing the whole thing by now. He almost felt like doing the same, but instead turned around to his work bench. “Perhaps.”

“Please!” There was a hand at his shoulder, spinning him back around. Yamcha had a wild look in his eye, panic, desperation, fear. He was fumbling in his pocket for something. “I need to get her back! I can't...I love her!” Now he pulled a small box out, opening it. In the fluorescent lights of the lab, the ring glinted. Simple silver color, with a plain clear crystal embedded within it. To Dr. Briefs it looked like it had been fashioned from a bit of scrap metal and a polished bit of quartz.

He wasn't sure what he was feeling when he looked back up at he man. “You were going to ask my Bulma to marry you.” Not a question, but a statement of fact.

“Yes.” Yamcha looked deflated, now, some heavy weight on his shoulder at the idea. Lost opportunities, perhaps? He wouldn't look Dr. Briefs in the eye as he said, “I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Sir, please, help me get her back.”

 _I'm not doing any of this for you_ , Briefs thought, but nevertheless he nodded. “All right.”

* * *

The evening after her disastrous attempt at dinner with Vegeta, Bulma had just finished calibrating some stellar gyroscopes, the only thing in the whole engineering bay that seemed to be running well before her intervention. It was a little puzzling. Almost like they’d been repaired shortly before she’d came on the ship. But she hadn't been able to figure out why, of all things, the Saiyans had kept up their navigation systems in lieu of something more practical, like, say, the _engine_.

So stewing, she hardly noticed as Kakarot and Raditz walked up to her at the end of the shift. Or, more accurately, as Kakarot bounded over while Raditz shook his head and trudged after him.

“Do you wanna eat dinner with my family?” the younger Saiyan blurted out. “My mate wants to meet you.”

Bulma dropped a rag she'd been wiping her hands on, scurrying to grab it. “You’re married?”

“Mated,” Raditz corrected. “Marriages are for the elite ranked soldiers only. But yes, my brother does have a woman and a child.”

“Huh.” She wrinkled her nose. Something about _woman_ didn't sit right with her. “Interesting.”

Kakarot didn't seem to pick up on such subtleties, scratching behind his head with a sheepish smile. “I heard what the Prince said about your food rations and you must be hungry by now!” (Ah, so he didn’t know her food access was restored. It seemed Tarble had kept that to himself.) “So are you gonna come?”

Bulma chewed a bit of chapped skin on her lip. Back on Namek, dinner had been a quiet and comfortable affair. She couldn't think of the last time she'd met someone new over dinner, certainly not in the past three years. She wasn't sure what time it was at the compound, but she imagined it was dinner time. Her mother was probably making a feast out of replicated food and scraps, serving it up for everyone with a smile. Tights and her father would always wait until she'd sat down before they'd dig in. Bulma would too, if she were there, joining them all at the back of the cafeteria. She could just see it.

“Sure,” Bulma said finally. “I'll go.”

* * *

She found out soon enough that her guards were not housed in the same crew quarters as the engineers, instead in a completely different corridor in a completely different wing of the castle, and up six or seven flights of stairs. Bulma was by no means unhealthy, but by the time she'd actually made it to the correct floor she was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. “Would it kill for this ship to have an elevator?” she grumbled to no one.

Raditz had given her fairly accurate directions, so luckily once she made it to the other corridor it was a breeze to find the room belonging to Kakarot and his family. Though the doors were blank, the panels next to them bore glowing text announcing the occupants. This one, just at the start of the corridor, read _Raditz_. The door next to it read _Kakarot_. She gently pressed a thumb into it and a shrill chime rang out into the hall.

Not half a second later, the door was flung open. Bulma flinched as she was suddenly staring into deep brown eyes. A woman, a bit younger than her but not by much, with black hair tied in a bun. The style of dress was incredibly familiar, though, blue with a red sash about the waist. Nothing at all like Saiyan soldier garb.

“You must be Bulma!” the woman shouted, bowing to her. Again, familiarity made Bulma bow back nearly reflexively. “Please come in!” In a blur, she was ushered inside. The quarters were similar to hers in layout, but well decorated. There was a wonderful smell of cooked meat in the air. Near a set of couches, a small child of about five years was playing with a bright orange orb with four red stars…

“Is that a Dragon Ball?” Bulma blurted out, but by the time she finished her sentence she knew the answer. It didn't catch the light correctly, seemed to be made out of fabric rather than crystal. A facsimile of one, but for sure modeled after the original.

“Bulma!” Kakarot shouted in lieu of an answer. He was walking in from another room, came to stand next to the young woman who must be his wife. He looked quite comfortable, actually, wearing a blue uniform reminiscent of a martial arts _gi_. “You know what Dragon Balls are?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “They're an old legend from Earth.” She had gone after them as a teenager. Led to lots of adventures, some swimming to the front of her memory now. A simpler time. Meeting Yamcha, her other friends...she'd remembered finding the four star ball in an abandoned hut on Mount Paozu, the last one. She couldn't remember her wish anymore...

“I knew it!” Before she could process fully, Kakarot’s wife threw her arms around Bulma, who for her part let out an undignified shriek as she was wrested off the ground into a spin. “I knew you had to be from Earth! Finally!”

“Aw, Chi-Chi,” Kakarot said through a laugh.

Given the number of bombshells Bulma’d had dropped on her in the last few weeks, she ought to have been used to them by now. But no, her brain still froze up trying to handle this new information, thoughts rattling about in her head until she finally was able to shout out, “Are you human?!”

The wife, Chi-Chi, finally put her down at that, grinning through watery eyes. “Yes!”

She had so many questions, but all of that was shoved aside. The idea that there was someone, anyone on the ship that might understand...Bulma tried to ignore the tightness in her chest. She just managed, “Me too!”

“Hey!” Kakarot said, clapping a hand on the women's shoulders, moment killed. “Now you two will have something to talk about at dinner!”

Sudden anger replaced the brief and fleeting joy in Bulma’s heart. She rounded on the Saiyan, brushing his hands off of her, as Chi-Chi did the same. “Why didn’t you tell me this?!” Bulma shouted, shaking Kakarot by the front of his shirt. The Saiyan yelped.

“What my husband told _me_ ,” Chi-Chi spat, fists balled at her sides, “Is that we picked up a woman on Namek. He didn’t mention anything about Earth until yesterday!”

“But Chi-Chi!” the harried husband whined, “I was trying to figure it out! She said her favorite food was strawberries and then I knew she had to be from our planet!”

“You couldn't have worked it into a conversation?!” Bulma shouted. “You literally have to follow me everywhere, Kakarot! Not even an, _oh there's another human on the ship_?!”

“Mom?” said a little voice from below them. The child, presumably Kakarot and Chi-Chi's, had wandered over with the plush Dragon Ball. “Can we eat soon? I'm hungry.”

Chi-Chi smiled at the young lad, ire evaporating. “Of course, Gohan. Dinner is just about ready.” With that, as though summoned, a bell chimed through the room, the same tone for Bulma's morning alarm clock. Wordlessly, Chi-Chi dashed off to a side room, presumably where the food was, leaving Bulma standing gobsmacked. Moments after, another shrill chime rang out. The front door.

The little boy, Gohan, was over in a flash, plush toy forgotten as he jumped up to unlock it. It took a few tries, but he managed to hit the door’s button with his tail with a bit of effort.

“Uncle Raditz!” he shouted out, barreling into the long-haired Saiyan at top speed. Raditz, for his part, actually smiled as he swung the boy around in circles, tossing him into the air with obvious affection. Unlike his brother, he was wearing a tunic, one that resembled his armor without the plates.

“Garban!” he shouted, gathering the little one in his arms. “Little kid warrior. It's good to see you. Brother! Greet me!” Now Kakarot turned, a smile of his own on his face, skating over to clasp an arm about his older brother’s shoulders. A surprising display of familial affection.

Bulma, who was pointedly ignoring the twisted feeling in her gut, cocked an eyebrow at the scene. “Garban?” Maybe she'd heard Chi-Chi incorrectly before about the little boy's name.

Kakarot, who was now engaged in a spirited game of _throw the little boy like a football_ with his brother, shouted, “Yeah, Gohan has a Saiyan name too! Raditz said he needed one. Gohan! Say hi to Bulma!”

“Hi!” shouted the football.

Okay, well, whatever. Bulma sat down on one of the couches in the center of the room. There was a lot to take in all of a sudden, and her head was spinning trying to piece it together, to knit a timeline. A Saiyan landing on earth, at some point. When? How did people not notice? Scooping up a woman from earth, bringing her to their empire? Chi-Chi was about her age, knew about Dragon Balls...were they in the same places at the same time? Did they brush past each other ever? And, Saiyans and Humans could _breed_? Just the idea alone that two species from different star systems could have compatible mating systems at all...that required some crazy amount of convergence...reproductive isolation failing on a massive scale...she could write books and papers and get famous on this, faster than light travel be damned...

Raditz’s shadow fell over her as she thought. “Lady Bulma,” he greeted, ghost of a smirk still on his face. “Finally eating something?”

“Yeah,” was the answer she could manage.

“Oh, Bulma, you must be starving!” Chi-Chi shouted from the other room, unseen. “That Prince, I swear,” and the rest was mumblings, presumably treasonous. (Was it treason if Chi-Chi was human? Ugh, she needed to sit down...shit, she already had.)

Regardless, Raditz, shaking his head, was walking over to an ornate wooden table, sitting as she watched. Bulma couldn't help but notice the contrast between the hominess of the furnishings and the sterile plastic of the walls. Couldn't help but notice how natural they all seemed here. Chi-Chi was bringing out trays of food, large pots of rice, steaming skewers of meat, which were enticing enough to make Bulma sit at the table as well.

“Did you make this yourself?” she asked when Chi-Chi set down a heaping pile of something she didn't recognize (dumplings maybe?).

Next to her Kakarot plopped down in a chair, son in his lap. “Chi-Chi likes to cook the human way.”

“We don't complain,” Raditz chuckled.

The floodgates were open now, though, and Bulma’s questions streamed out of her through the relief, the confusion, the bittersweet. “Where did you get this food? How did you even get to Earth? _Why_ were you on Earth? What did—”

She was cut off when Chi-Chi placed a hand on her shoulder. “If you can manage to sit through dinner,” she said gently, “I promise we will answer all your questions. But I have to feed my family. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bulma repeated dumbly.

“Good.” Chi-Chi clapped her hands together. “Well, everyone, dig in! Before it gets cold.”

* * *

Dinner had been a fabulous affair. There hadn't been much opportunity for talking, since it seemed Saiyan men didn't so much eat as vacuum up their food, and Bulma wasn't far behind them once she'd had the first bite. Honestly, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed a home cooked meal, rather than a replicated one. Had it only been a few weeks since she'd been here?

Over a pot of lavender tea, Chi-Chi and Bulma sat off in a cozy corner of the quarters, remains of the meal not yet tidied. Every now and again, their conversation was interrupted by laughs, giggles, and praise. Kakarot and Raditz both had stayed in the main room, play fighting with the little one.

“I was the only woman on the ship until now, let alone human,” Chi-Chi was saying as she added some sweetener to her mug. “The Prince didn't want mated pairs on board, and most of the Saiyan women were killed under Frieza’s rule.”

“How did you end up here, anyway?” Bulma asked, taking a sip, then a deep drink. She was struck by how it tasted, the depth of flavor—tea was one of those things she couldn't synthesize right, couldn't get to the correct complexity. “Is this real?”

The other woman gave a warm smile. “Imported from Earth itself, yes. It has a long shelf life.” She glanced over toward the kitchen, sighed. “It's hard for me to use the replicators. I miss cooking with fresh food. But we can only get so much.”

Bulma set her cup down on the table in front of them to refill it. “So you’ve been on the ship for a while?”

Chi-Chi nodded. “I came to Planet Vegeta as a child with Goku—Kakarot, sorry.” She sighed. “Old habits. Anyway, Raditz was on the Prince’s personal guard helping round up all the scattered Saiyans. Got sent to get his brother off of Earth, but Kakarot refused to leave without me. I ended up in the same pod.” Bulma tilted her head, but before she could ask Chi-Chi put her hand up. “We were teenagers in love. It’s a long story, another time. Anyway, he became a soldier and I tagged along. I look enough like a Saiyan to pass for one, and no one pried too close, so I just...” She waved her hand. “Got lost in the shuffle.”

Bulma nodded. “Wouldn’t want to lose a chance to repopulate.”

“Mhmm.” Chi-Chi took a sip of tea. “When we arrived Prince Vegeta had just taken over the empire. Raditz managed to pass me off as a Saiyan female and said we were mated. We got lucky—Gohan was born around, oh, three years after that?” She glanced over at her family with a warm smile. “Then it was surprisingly easy to fake. Raditz knows, of course. And Tarble—you can’t get anything past that man.”

“I gathered.”

A brief clatter from the other room caught their attention, and another wistful smile came over Chi-Chi's face for a moment. It faded as she looked back to their tea, but the happiness was still obvious. “So that's your answer to how I'm here.”

“Why was Kakarot on Earth?” was Bulma's next question.

“He was sent there as a baby.” Chi-Chi said with a sigh. “Saiyans shipped off their weakest infants before Frieza took over. Even an infant can take over a planet, add it to the empire.”

Bulma's stomach turned, the lavender no longer doing her any favors. “That's horrific.”

“Well,” was the reply, “I'm just grateful it didn't happen. Kakarot was adopted by a man named Gohan, renamed Goku, and raised on Earth as a human. My father and Gohan were friends, so we met when I was very young.” She blushed a bit then, giggling. “I had such a terrible crush on him. Poor boy.”

Bulma looked toward the other room, where the play fighting continued. “It seemed to work out for you.”

“That it did. Regardless, there's not enough baby Saiyans now even if they wanted to send them out.” Chi-Chi poured a third mug of tea for Bulma. “I think that's why the Prince tolerates us being here. There aren't that many Saiyan men either, and Raditz made me and Kakarot a package deal. No wife, no soldier.”

She cupped her hands around the tea, the warmth calmly seeping into her skin. “So the Prince is fond of Raditz?” She hadn't really seen him play favorites with anyone. Maybe Tarble.

“He's strong,” Chi-Chi said with a shrug. “They both are. Vegeta wanted the best for his personal guard.” Now she was beaming, a proud grin. “And my Goku is the best there is.”

At that, Raditz walked around the corner, holding Garban under his arm. The little half Saiyan was rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Chi-Chi,” his uncle said, “I think playtime is over.” He lobbed the boy into his mother's lap like it was nothing, and for her part Chi-Chi didn't bat an eyelash. Raditz grinned at Bulma. “See you tomorrow, mechanic,” he said, and Bulma waved as he walked away.

“Time for bed, sweetie,” Chi-Chi cooed at her son, who looked boneless and half asleep already. She took one last sip of her tea, stood up with the mug. “Bulma, I'm afraid I'll have to say good night to you.”

“That's fine,” she replied, standing. “I should be heading back to my quarters anyway.” She was still translating a map of the ship, and was hoping to locate the launch bay tonight, if there was one.

The two women walked out of the nook together. Raditz had left, and Kakarot had gone into the bedroom. Bulma headed toward the door, turning just as she was about to leave.

“Chi-Chi”, Bulma said, “Your food was phenomenal. But I have to admit that I haven’t been starving the last few days.”

The other woman faced her and said, “I know.” She smiled sweetly. “You didn’t have the look of someone on bread and water for four days. But if I’ve learned anything pretending to be Saiyan on this ship, its that it’s good to keep up appearances.” Before heading off into her child's bedroom, Chi-Chi gave a small wave. “You’re welcome anytime in our home, Bulma. Starving or otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for all your comments!


	10. Rest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma needs a day away from engineering.

Over the course of the next week, Bulma had dinner with Kakarot and family four times, each day having a longer and longer conversation with Chi-Chi about adjusting to the ship. In turn, she'd been sharing her escapades on Namek, detailing her history looking for Dragon Balls, and attempting to help Garban learn the Saiyan alphabet. She was starting to look forward to her visits, although last night she'd not left for her own quarters until well past bedtime, and she was bleary-eyed as she repaired the gravitic stabilizers. Even after Bulma had returned and lay in bed, she hadn't been able to sleep right away, replaying one part of their conversation over and over. 

“I need a day off,” Bulma had said to Chi-Chi. She thrived on working weekends when she was passionate about a project, and digging around in alien technology was one of her favorite tasks, but she could only go so long without needing to take a rest day. Especially when her day to day life involved trying to learn a new language (God, she wished she had Tights), repair a ship that was completely falling apart, and avoid being caught planning her escape. The only thing breaking the monotony was dinner. 

“Why don't you ask Tarble for one?” the dark haired woman had said simply. “He seems to like you, and I doubt he has to tell Vegeta about it.”

Bulma couldn't think of any reason why not at least try, not even after playing the scenario out in her head instead of sleeping, so that morning upon reaching a good stopping point, she rang the bridge on the visual intercom.

The link opened with a cheerful chime, but the face that greeted her was anything but. A bald Saiyan with a thin moustache scowled at her. Nappa, she remembered. She hadn't seen or talked to him since the day she'd been conscripted.

“Bridge,” was his curt answer. 

“I need to talk to Tarble,” she said.

“He's not here,” Nappa said with a glower. “What do you want, mechanic?”

“I'm not a mechanic,” Bulma muttered under her breath. She continued, “I need a day off.” 

Nappa scoffed. “Saiyans don't _get_ days off on this ship,” he dismissed. 

Bulma leveled her own glare at the man. “You might recall that I am not a Saiyan.”

“I don't see why conscripted workers should be any different,” Nappa said with a grin. “And don't think that your womanhood will make me more generous, either.”

She huffed. “Wouldn't dream of it. The fact remains that I need a day off, and you're going to give it to me, or lose your only engineer.”

Nappa was chuckling now, a dark sound she didn't like much, but before he could say anything else, he shut down the channel. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bulma shrieked, making Kakarot and Raditz jump. Her guards had taken to spending their days puttering around rather than actually guarding her, and they had been playing some sort of dice game. Now, though, Bulma rounded on them. “He just hung up on me!” 

“Who, Tarble?” said Kakarot.

“No, Nappa!” Bulma picked up a rag she'd hung over a console and threw it at the wall. It hit with a pitifully light thud and slid to the ground. Unsatisfied, she threw a wrench after it. “The nerve! What a fucking _ass_!”

Raditz pulled a face, the same one he'd sported when she'd been invited to dinner. “I'm not sure what you expected.”

“I expected Tarble,” Bulma spat, crossing and uncrossing her arms. “I expected to get a day to _not_ work.”

Kakarot scratched his head. “Why can’t you just not come to work?” he said, but his brother smacked him with his tail. “Ow! Raditz!”

“You idiot,” he chastised. “ _We_ have to escort her everywhere. If she doesn’t come to work, we have to tell the Prince.” He was gathering up the dice now, which had scattered during Bulma’s outburst. “And I don’t want to be caught smuggling her away from here.”  

Bulma begrudgingly retrieved her rag and wrench. Raditz was right — either she needed official approval, or a much better excuse. But she wasn’t making as much headway with the engine as she could have, and she suspected it was from constant stress. Plus, there must have been other vital systems on the ship having to do with the engine. Stabilizers or thrusters, things that would need to be decentralized. Power supply. 

“Raditz,” she asked, “Where else is there broken equipment in the castle?”

Kakarot laughed. “Where isn't there, Bulma!” 

Raditz scowled at his brother but answered, “There's multiple equipment rooms outside of engineering. Some of them are just broken and spare parts storage.”

That made Bulma smile. “How many storage rooms are there?”

“Uhh...six or seven? They're scattered around.”

“I don't think anyone's been in one in years,” said Kakarot. 

The first essence of a plan was bubbling up in Bulma's head now. Storage rooms, spare parts, inventory, weaving it all together… She paced the room, thinking, mumbling to herself. The Saiyans went back to their dice.

Eventually, Bulma returned to the console and paged the bridge. Nappa appeared on screen once more, looking extra annoyed. “What do you want now?” he spat. 

“What do you know about redundancies?” she said with a barely concealed grin. 

* * *

That was how Bulma wound up digging through one of the many storage rooms on the castle, opening box after dusty box. The change of scenery felt like a holiday already, and she found herself as excited breaking open crates with a makeshift crowbar as she was opening presents in their well manicured boxes. (Her mom, even on Namek, managed to make present boxes look professionally done. Everyone else in the family couldn't manage to cut wrapping paper the right length. But Bulma wasn't thinking about that right now.)

Prying off the side of a crate, Bulma bent to examine the contents. “I don't know what this is,” she said to Kakarot, who helpfully dragged it out of the box. Even in the light it was still a mystery. Metallic and rounded on one end, sort of shaped like an old fashioned anvil, but bigger. Easily came up to her waist and just as wide on each side. She tapped it with the crowbar and it rang out, a pleasant sound. “Solid, though. Can you put it in that pile?” Bulma waved her hand and the son of Bardock dutifully picked up the object, lugging it next to a stack of similarly unknown parts and pieces.

Raditz had been hovering by the door since they'd arrived about an hour and a half ago, looking rather like he didn't want to be there. Occasionally, he peered out into the hallway. Bulma would have called him nervous, but it seemed a bit comical to refer to a member of a warrior race that way. Besides, Nappa had given them permission to leave, if reluctantly, so she was happy to keep finding old treasures. The thought of taking these bits and bobs apart and figuring out what they did was just too tantalizing. 

As Bulma wedged her crowbar into the next crate, a series of rapidfire sounds caught her attention. First, the slamming of metal on metal. Then, a choked grunt and Raditz yelling, followed by a thud. She whirled around, brandishing the crowbar, just to see Kakarot land atop his brother with a shout. Following his path of travel back, her eyes landed on none other than the Saiyan Prince himself. Of _course_. 

The Prince was stomping toward her, tail thrashing through the air, fists and teeth clenched together. Bulma and Vegeta seemed to be of one mind as they both shouted, “What are you doing down here?!” 

“I thought I told you to stay in engineering—”

“I was given permission to be here—”

“—to work on the engines, mechanic! The only—”

“—by _your_ bridge crew, and I've got important—”

“—reason you're still _alive_ is for the engines!”

“—shit to go through to fix your damn ship! And I'm not a fucking _mechanic_!”

“Why are you down here?” Vegeta growled. He'd rounded on her fully by now, drawn up to his full height not a foot away. Bulma stood tall, meeting his glare with a matching one. 

“You can't possibly expect me to fix the engines from one room. Do you have any idea what repairs are actually like?!” She rolled her eyes. 

The Prince balled his fists. “You continually disobey me after I have shown you mercy.” Apparently, a sarcastic laugh was not how Bulma should have responded. “I should have you thrown out the airlock for insubordination!”

“Oh please. I’m not scared of you, Vegeta!” Bulma shouted. “And I need to have access to storage to do anything! Where do you think I'm going to get the parts to fix with?!”

“I am trying to protect you from the _crew_ , woman!”

Bulma drew back at that, blinking. “Excuse me?”

The Prince’s snout curled up in disgust, teeth bared, but Vegeta was much quieter when he spoke again. “There are fifty Saiyan men on this ship that haven't seen a humanoid female in years. Some would be...dangerous to you.”

Bulma sighed. This felt like Yamcha again. “Yet you assigned two of them to me.”

It was Vegeta's turn to roll his eyes and pinch the bridge of his snout with a gloved hand. “Those buffoons. One is mated and the other is brain damaged idiot. They're uselessly harmless. The rest of the ship—”

“I'm not scared of the rest of the ship, either,” Bulma interrupted. “Especially since I have your personal guard on my side.”

His eyes narrowed. “Need I remind you that you only have them on my orders.”

“Need I remind _you_ that I can't be an effective engineer if all your essential systems are down.”

“Fine!” Vegeta slashed an arm through the air, then whirled around to the heap that were her bodyguards. “You two! Take her wherever she wants to go.” Now he grabbed Kakarot and Raditz each by the collar, yanking him up standing. In a low voice, he added, “Except the throne room.” 

“Yes my liege,” they both said quickly. 

At this, Vegeta dropped the two, who mercifully landed on their feet this time, and stormed out of the room, cape catching angry currents of air behind him. 

By the time he was gone, Bulma was already taking her anger out on an innocent crate, violently wrenching off the sides. Her brain was churning through her ire. God, all she wanted was for that _creature_ to leave her alone. He didn’t make any sense. Violent one minute, concerned the next. Plus half of the stuff he said was just confusing. She’d already been _in_ the throne room, for their disastrous dinner. 

“Gee, Raditz, it wasn’t very nice of him to call you brain damaged.” 

“He was talking about you, you idiot.”

Her bodyguards, having picked themselves up, nevertheless flinched as Bulma whipped around brandishing the crowbar. “One of you, go get Tarble. I have a lot of questions for him. The other one, help me unload the rest of these crates.” 

“Yes Lady Bulma,” they chirped, in the same panicked tone as when addressing their Prince, and honestly Bulma could get used to that.


	11. Thrones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma investigates a mismatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! I'm in the middle of nowhere but we have wifi so here is a chapter! When I get back to civilization I will tweak the formatting a little more.
> 
> Also thank you for all your comments! I haven't had time to respond to all of them in the depth I want but they really inspire me!

After Kakarot had left to fetch the chief of staff, Raditz and Bulma opened boxes and hauled their contents in silence, shockingly efficiently. She was stewing, and he didn’t seem to want to say anything lest she stew at him.

Eventually, though, they ran out of boxes to open. This storage room wasn’t particularly large, and the majority of the crates were huge and took up a lot of space. Once finished, she sat on the remains of a broken crate, her guard standing awkwardly beside her, trying not to make eye contact.

But Bulma didn’t want to sit in silence forever, and who knew when Kakarot would manage to get Tarble here. So she turned to look up to him and said, “What was with the Prince’s comment? About you and your brother?”

Raditz stiffened, winding his tail tight about his waist. “Just cruel truths.”

Bulma shook her head. Typical Prince. “Well, I don’t think you’re brain damaged.”

“He was talking about Kakarot,” Raditz spat, scowling down at her. “Not me.” When she gave him a confused look, he continued. “My brother lost his Saiyan nature on Earth. He’s _nice_. They think he hit his head or something.”

“Oh.” Gears turned in Bulma’s head. “Well that doesn’t make sense. He said one brain-damaged and one mated. Kakarot’s got Chi-Chi, he’d be both.” Unbidden, a thought came to her, and she turned to him with a glimmer of understanding. “Unless you were mated too?”

Raditz’s face twitched, mouth screwing up against some emotion he didn’t want to show. He didn’t say anything, just turned away from her. As Bulma made to speak again, she was cut off by the storage room door swinging open. That line of thought would have to wait.

“Bulma,” said Tarble as he strode in with Kakarot. “I see you've been eating.” He glanced around at all the destroyed crates and piles of parts. “And redecorating.”

‘Yeah, well, I need the extra parts,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “I need to ask you—”

Tarble put a hand up to cut her off. “I’m afraid that I cannot answer your questions right now, Lady Bulma. I have been ordered to assist in your surveys of the storage room. But I will be happy to discuss matters with you at a later time.” He pulled out a datapad and began to take notes on it, glancing this way and that at all the parts.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I am afraid not.”

Briefly wondering how much trouble she’d get in for throwing a crowbar at Tarble, Bulma just sank back down on top of the broken crate. She felt like someone had put a heavy weight on her shoulders and honestly, she was out of energy to fight. She’d had too many fights in the last few weeks. “Fine,” she said. “The pile is over there. Do whatever you need to do with it.”

* * *

Shift change came more slowly than Bulma wanted, given that she had gotten wrangled into taking inventory. As she walked into her quarters, all she wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. And possibly also punch every member of the royal family, but unfortunately that was beyond her. She hadn't even gotten to talk to Tarble about anything substantial.

Equally unfortunate was Bulma’s need to get off this godforsaken ship. Begrudgingly, she trudged over to her work desk and pulled up the map she’d been translating, projecting it on the wall in front of her. It was just about done, in fact, especially now that she could identify the word for “storage”. There were only a few lingering concerns—for instance, if there was a launch bay, or escape pods, or whatever. They touched down on Arcose tomorrow, and yes, she needed to figure out a way to either get a shuttle or a ship off of the planet itself, but...

Bulma’s eye was drawn to one corner of the map. She’d labeled the large and grandiose room she’d met Prince Vegeta in as “throne room” originally, but now she was starting to have her doubts about that. After all, why would she be banned from somewhere she’d gone before, been invited to even? It didn’t make sense. Either there was something crazy important about the throne room...or it _wasn’t_ the throne room. And she was going to find out tonight.

From her jumpsuit pocket, Bulma whipped out a stylus and made a few notes on the page. The areas without translations were highlighted gold and as she filled in the unlabeled storage rooms they faded back into the light blue of the map. Pulling out the dictionary Tarble had so generously lended her, she flipped through. Tsunami...tiara...ah, there was throne.

...It didn’t match.

“It’s not the throne room,” Bulma said to nobody, waving the stylus, tapping it against the desk. “It must be something else.”

The first step was to figure out what the actual room was then. Curiosity demanded it. Flipping to the second half of her dictionary, the Saiyan to standard half, she scanned through for the first of the Saiyan characters (not quite having the order of their alphabet memorized yet was a pain). A little but of digging, though, and she found the correct word. It was Saiyan for _ballroom_.

“Hah, I was right,” Bulma muttered to herself. She updated the map to reflect her new findings and took a second to bask in her own awesomeness.

Next to find the actual throne room. There must be something helpful in there if she was going to be banned from it, and if the Prince had gone to all the trouble of moving the throne itself out. A simple search for the term made short work of that task, a chamber highlighting on her screen. The room was much smaller, but tucked away deep in the center of the castleship. Only accessible by one small corridor that branched off what she knew to be the upper staff quarters, closer to where the Bardock brothers and Chi-Chi were housed.

"All right,” Bulma said, closing the map. She marched around the room, gathering as many things as she thought might be needed. A flashlight, a few capsules of medical supplies, a notepad and stylus all loaded up into her jumpsuit pockets.

The night shift was in full swing and she barely saw anyone as she left her room and began to head toward the other corridor. Being alone didn't bother Bulma though, not when she'd made this walk toward Kakarot and Chi-Chi's quarters before, and especially not when she was expressly investigating something she was forbidden from. The fewer witnesses the better as far as she was concerned.

After ascending the terrible, terrible series of stairs that she was now all too familiar with, Bulma paused at the top for just a moment to catch her breath. This, unfortunately, was when the trouble started.

“Lady Bulma!” shouted a chipper voice. The chief of staff himself floated up the stairs behind her, feet gently coming back down on the landing. Bulma scrambled to collect herself as Tarble smiled cheerfully at her. “What brings you to this section of the castle?”

Quickly, Bulma lied, “I'm getting dinner with Chi-Chi and her family.” She waved toward their chambers.

“Ah,” said Tarble with a knowing look. “I've heard about that from members of the crew. Quite wonderful to know that you’re settling in here!”

The sincerity in his tone made Bulma’s stomach turn a bit. Best not to let it slip that she was planning to escape come Arcose.

Tarble gestured toward the crew quarters. “As it seems you lack your designated guards, might I escort you to Kakarot's quarters?”

Uh oh. “No thanks, I know the way.”

“Please, madam, I insist.” Tarble held out his arm for her to take, this gentlemanly act apparently common to their species. With seemingly no other option, Bulma laid her hand in the crook of his elbow and they walked together down the corridor, her mind trying to find a solution to this new Saiyan shaped problem.

“So, madam.” He leaned toward her now as they walked, a hushed voice rife with gossip. “Not to spread rumors of course, but the men of the ship seems to think Raditz has taken a certain...fondness to you, shall we say?”

Bulma wrinkled her nose, instantly catching on. “You mean they think we're sleeping together.”

Tarble frowned. “I'm not sure what sleeping has to do with it, to be honest. But they do think you are, pardon my bluntness, fucking him.”

She rolled her eyes. Guess that was one idiom that didn't translate well.

“Of course I don't believe it for a second, Lady Bulma.” He gently patted her elbow with his tail, which was a weird but oddly pleasant sensation. “What with Raditz being mate-lost and all.” Now there was a slightly more serious look to his face. “But I think in this case it may be best to let the crew believe what they believe. One wouldn't want to get on the bad side of the royal family's personal guard, after all.”

The political part of Bulma's mind was clicking on now, a part that had been rarely exercised since they'd left for Namek, and that part was putting together a lot of information from the last few hours. “If they think I were sleeping with... _fucking_ , Raditz, the crew would leave me alone.”

Another soft smile. “Precisely.”

All right, well, she'd bet that could come in handy later on. Mental note.

They’d made it to the Kakarot/Chi-Chi/Raditz household by now and Tarble chimed the door. As usual, Chi-Chi flung the door open with vigor, this time flinching. “Oh! Prince Tarble!” she said. “We were not expecting a visit from you today.”

Tarble smiled. “Nor was I, but I saw Lady Bulma unescorted and insisted on accompanying her here.”

Chi-Chi smiled. “How thoughtful!”

Bulma, for her part, managed what she thought was a sincere smile but she suspected it was more a grimace. “Yes! Very thoughtful.”

There was a scampering from inside the quarters and a dark haired little boy popped into existence. “Hi Bulma!” said Garban, hopping up and down excitedly behind his mother. Distressed or not, Bulma couldn't help but give him a wave and a fond smile. She really liked that kid. While waving back, the youngster seemed to suddenly notice Tarble and gasped, dashing back into the room.

“I see he still isn't fond of me,” Tarble said with a sigh.

Chi-Chi frowned. “He's getting better, sir.” To Bulma she added, “He is just shy around men. Anyway,” she said with a clap of her hands, “Prince Tarble, would you like to join us for dinner? We would be honored to have you.”

He thought for a moment. “If you are sure I'm not intruding, I would relish the opportunity. We both would love to join you.”

“Actually,” Bulma said quickly, extracting her arm from Tarble’s grip, “I just realized I forgot to shut down my welder before leaving engineering today. I should go make sure it's not burning a hole in any circuits.”

“Oh goodness,” Chi-Chi gasped.

Tarble was instantly all serious concern. “I can bring you to engineering right away—”

“No!” she shouted, already making to run off. “I wouldn't want to deprive you of Chi-Chi's excellent food. Sorry, another time!”

“All right then,” Tarble said reluctantly, and Bulma shot down the hallway. “Good luck!” he called after her.

She ran through the corridors at top speed until comfortable slowing down, sure she had not been followed. Panting a bit, Bulma surveyed her surroundings and realized she was just about at the turn for the throne room. Glancing around in the deserted halls, she struck off into the depths of the castle.

* * *

The corridor was surprisingly easy to get into, once she was away from the others. As she walked, the furnishings grew more and more decrepit, even undusted. It was obvious that Tarble hadn't set foot in the area for a long time, given his proclivity for cleaning things. But as far as she was concerned, that meant she was on the right track.

Eventually the hall ended in a set of double doors, not quite as grandiose as those of the ballroom but still heavy looking. Luckily for Bulma, one was ajar, hanging limply from a single hinge. It wasn't open by much, but there was enough room for her to squeeze through without too much trouble.

The first thing she noticed was that it was dark and cold and didn't smell very good. The lights didn't appear to function anymore, and something about the rattle through the air vents made Bulma suspect the atmospheric conditioning was offline. She reached into her jumpsuit pocket, flipped out a flashlight, and began to inspect her surroundings.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

 _Everything_ was broken. The curtains were torn to shreds, hard to make anything out of the original patterns. All of the furnishings had been upended, smashed. There was a window or a mirror that was cracked, fracturing her reflection. But that wasn't the worst of it. She walked through the room, toward a raised platform seating two large, grandiose, and utterly destroyed thrones, shards of precious gems and metal blown to dust around them. The chairs themselves were charred, and her stomach dropped as she noticed the shape of the burns -- cookie cutters of humanoids. On the walls hung tattered tapestries, covered in dark stains, brown now but even to Bulma it was obvious that it was blood, old and caked on. The centermost tapestry, the largest surviving, was coated in so much debris that she could barely make out the subject matter, even more so given the large gashes cut out of it. The evidence of death and destruction all around her was overwhelming, but even through this that large banner caught her attention.

Having reached it, she gave the edge a gentle shake, throwing her hands up against the onslaught of dust raining on her head. Still, she could see a little better, and with a shock she recognized Tarble, though much younger, in the image. Behind him stood two Saiyans, a male and female in royal garb. The King and Queen most likely. The fourth figure stood dead center, and it was this one that was the most difficult to make out, but she would bet that it depicted Vegeta at a corresponding age. Maybe if she gave the tapestry another shake…

With a clang the doors behind Bulma blew open, their heavy weight apparent as they slammed against the wall. The force of the blast sent a great wind into the throne room and with a shriek she grabbed the nearest piece of broken furniture to weather it. As it died she whirled around. There, in the door, was a hulking figure, cape swirling in the whirlwind. In a single great bound, it leaped between her and the tapestry, backing her into the smaller throne and forcing her around it. By the light of her flashlight, the enraged face of Prince Vegeta was thrown into harsh contrast, the angles of his muzzle distinct and monstrous.

 _Fuck_.

“What are you doing here?!” the creature growled, hunched but still towering over her. Bulma shrank back, knocking into some more decrepit furniture as she tried to flee. “I said you were never to come here!”

She was at a loss for words. “I...I...”

“Why did you come here?!” he demanded again, this time swiping at a table and smashing it to smithereens. “Do you know anything about what is in this place?!”

“I'm sorry!” Bulma shouted, terrified. “I didn't mean—”

“Get out!” he bellowed, the temperature of the room plunging in an instant. Now he was charging up an energy blast, loosing it on tables and chairs and tapestries in a burst of flame that did not mitigate the cold. “ _Get out!_ ”

She ran, and ran, ran until she was out, was down the multiple flights of stairs, was standing shaking behind the door to her quarters clutching her arms around herself and trying to remember to breathe. Seven counts in, eleven counts out. In seven. Out eleven. Inhale. Exhale. Inspire. Expire.

 _I have to leave_ , she thought when her heart rate came back down. _Tomorrow, I'm getting off this ship if it kills me._


	12. Arcose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma leaves the ship.

They touched down on the planet Arcose during ship’s morning, landing on the dark side, not that you could tell with the artificial day cycle. From a perch near the base of the grand staircase, Bulma watched a flood of Saiyans who were being assigned to scour the planet and carry out whatever business the empire had. As the last of the Saiyans were just through the door, she slung a makeshift rucksack over her shoulder and sped out into the world before the door closed again.

What Bulma knew about Arcose was that it had supplied Saiyans with armor and technology since the latter had started being a spacefaring race. According to the castleship’s computer, the Frieza empire had developed it into a trading hub that serviced most of the sector. Bulma couldn't yet see that, though—all she could make out from the ship was a lot of desert, crumbling buildings, and a sharp boundary between the planet’s natural night and the ship's false day.

She pulled out a capsule and tossed it, her hoverbike appearing. The Saiyan crew had all taken flight toward what she suspected was the main city, so once she mounted the bike she followed. The sky darkened as she left the castle, and she glanced back only for a second to see if she was being followed, and to wonder if she should have brought Chi-Chi with her, since she'd be going back to Earth after Namek. But she wasn't being tracked and she couldn't keep up that line of thought forever, so by the time she made it out of the castleship's sphere of influence she only had escape in her mind.

After about ten minutes of driving the hub itself began to appear on the horizon, glowing faintly orange in the night. Before getting close, Bulma took a moment to test her weaponry, hopefully no longer disabled by whatever blocks Tarble had set up. Aiming at an innocent scrubby bush, she was happy to see that her last pistol was functioning just fine, although the unfortunate plant probably didn't appreciate being burnt.

She stood by the flames for a few minutes, warming her hands against the chill of the desert night and trying to formulate a plan. Avoid Saiyans, that was first. And she couldn't assume the planet was safe. Probably wasn't, in fact. Not to mention she didn't have any semblance of currency. The idea, then, was to head into the market, and find a ship that she could steal. Preferably a small one, something that wouldn't be immediately noticed. Everything else would have to happen on the fly.

She rubbed her eyes with her now warmed hands, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. God, the encounter with the Prince the night before had left her so rattled. She hadn't been able to sleep, only plan her escape from the ship.

Mounting her hoverbike again, it was another few minutes before the orange haze of the city gave way to actual buildings, not just crumbling ones, at first sparse but then more and more thick. When the gaps between them became narrow enough to constitute a road, she hopped off the hoverbike and threw it back in it's capsule.

The area was very clearly a market, with colorful stalls and loud noises of people bartering. Most of the shopkeepers around wore cloaks and had masks, green skin poking out from underneath when they guestured. She assumed those were the Arcosians. Most of them seemed dressed plainly, but here or there she saw ones with jewels on. Higher status perhaps? The rest of the aliens were a wild assortment of peoples, some humanoid, some distinctly not, of all shapes and sizes, colors, attires. It was really quite dazzling to behold, the diversity of the universe all wrapped up in one place. And the languages! People speaking Standard seemed to be in the minority here, but from those who were she heard names of tons of other planets just walking through. Arlia, Zalt, Brench, Pital… no mention yet of Namek, but she was keeping her ears on.

The uneasy feeling in her about the whole situation wasn't making it easy to focus, though. As she walked through, she felt them staring at her from all around, every glance she took revealing someone's beady eyes on her, conversation dying down just slightly. She wished she had some sort of covering, a head wrap or something. Blue hair wasn't the most inconspicuous.

There it was, though! Someone mentioned Namek in Standard, not once but twice. Scanning around, her eyes settled on a stall tended by what looked like a giant bug, dark compound eyes, moth like protuberances on the head, and large scaly wings folded up. Her stomach flipped in disgust, but the creature was nonetheless engaged in an argument with one of Vegeta's Saiyan soldiers, who was holding a sack. Both were shrieking at each other, the Saiyan shaking his contraband and the creature waving its arms wildly. She could only hear snippets from here, but it appeared to be a trade going wrong. The bag appeared to contain something Namek related—if Bulma squinted she could almost make out greenish-purple flowers. An Ajisa plant perhaps?

“Fuck,” she muttered to herself, carefully moving out of sight of the soldier. “How am I supposed to get to Namek now?”

“I can get you to Namek,” said a silky voice from behind her, making her jump. Bulma turned away from the argument to see an Arcosian, standing just behind her and staring at her with an eerie calm.

“Who are you?” she said, hand grazing her pistol.

“A smuggler,” said the Arcosian. “Traveling to the Namekian sector. I can take you there.”

This felt too easy, and honestly Bulma had a bad feeling. Smugglers? Weighing the option for a moment, she insead backed up a step. “No thanks.”

“Wait,” said another voice from behind her, equally sultry. Glancing around, a second Arcosian had come to flank her, and she adjusted to back away from both concurrently. “You haven't even heard our price.”

“I'm sure it's too much,” Bulma said honestly, wrapping her hand around the butt of her pistol. “I'll keep looking.”

She turned a third time, and now two more Arcosians had come up, completely surrounding her.

“Leave me alone,” she warned, glaring. “I don't want any trouble.”

There was a flurry of movement and a sudden obstruction to her vision. Bulma let out a scream as a net, heavy and made of thick metallic rope, enveloped her courtesy of the first Arcosians she'd been talking to.

“What?!” she shouted, flailing as the net dragged her to the ground. She tried to move, tried to reach out to grab her pistol, but the net was just too heavy, too incapacitating. It made it hard to breathe, even.

One of the Arcosians walked up with some sort of large metal pole, which it activated with a wave of its hand. Bulma felt herself hoisted in the air, the net magnetizing and sticking to the pole. Then, she was carried off, like a pig trussed for supper.

“Let me go!” she shouted, despite the effort of speaking. “Where are you taking me?! Put me down!”

Her captors were silent, the four of them hefting her along like pallbearers with a coffin, somber and serious. The other shopkeepers didn't even spare a glance in her direction as they processed through the market. The effort of shouting for help wasn't worth it, it seemed, so she instead used her dwindling energy to try and shake off the net, reach her pistol. How was the net so _heavy _?__

After a few minutes she felt herself tilted down, looking forward as the Arcosians were entering what appeared to be an amphitheatre, dilapidated and covered in wispy grass. They passed an alien, short and with an extra two eyes on the side of its head, which nodded at the Arcosians as they went. Soon they had gone past the amphitheatre into the wings, where she could make out multiple other groups waiting with similar net and pole setups. At a distance it appeared silent, but soon they drew closer and there was faint wailing from the nets.

God, she was so tired, no amount of adrenaline able to counteract the net. Maybe, she sluggishly thought, there was some sort of substance in it, a tranquilizer or sedative. Maybe it was just the weight. Despite all this, she could move her head just enough to see around her.

____

Every net was full, dozens of them with creatures and people of all shapes and sizes. Males, females, things she couldn't classify into any binary, humanoids, insectoids, and what she desperately hoped was not actually children but suspected had to be. All were still, but she could hear the sad cries from a few, begging in languages she didn't know.

____

A loud gong like noise rang out, and now she could hear chatter over the wailing, crowd noises gradually getting louder. Soon, the short alien from the entrance walked in to beckon a group of Arcosians, who walked forward with him out to the main stage with their netted prizes. A few minutes later, the same with another group. And another.

____

Five or six groups after, her head unable to think, Bulma felt the world shift and tried to rouse herself as she was eventually placed in a holder in front of a holographic screen, her captors stepping off the the side, the four eyed alien reaching up to her and placing something on her head, something wiry and metallic that made her teeth buzz.

____

The screen behind her flashed through multiple scripts and symbols as soon as it hit her temples. When the screen flashed Standard, she caught glimpses of the information, forcing herself to process the words before hey could disappear. Engineer. Female. Earth. Humanoid. 200,000 credits starting bid.

____

Her stomach dropped. There was more chatter from the gathered crowd as the unknown alien began to drone in an unfamiliar language. The number on the screen began to climb.

____

She was _for sale _.__

______ _ _

Suddenly enough energy raced back into her to struggle and scream, but her voice was too quiet. She wasn't even sure she could hear herself. Her pistol, could she just get her pistol—

______ _ _

Outside the amphitheatre, there was a commotion, and crackling.

______ _ _

From a few hundred meters away, through the net, she could see a large glowing figure tearing its way through the crowd, aliens and Arcosians being flung into buildings left and right. Her captors started chittering in a language she couldn't understand, racing around to grab weapons, more weapons, bigger weapons. As the figure approached, the air cooled even further, and Bulma could see her breath as she shook beneath the net.

______ _ _

“Vegeta,” she whispered as he came into view.

______ _ _

The four eyed alien backed away from the podium as the Prince approached, running behind the amphitheatre toward an unknown purpose. He returned a moment later with an Arcosian in purple attire, who was bedecked in precious metals and gems.

______ _ _

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the Arcosian. What had remained of the crowd had dispersed, terrified. “What have you done to my customers?” With this, a number of Arcosians flooded out to the stage, armed and having abandoned their captives, standing between her and Vegeta, blocking all view.

______ _ _

“The woman is mine,” he said with icy fury. “Return her to me at once and I will spare the rest of you.”

______ _ _

“Who are you?!” shouted the four eyed alien, levelling a large rifle at him.

______ _ _

Prideful anger flashed on his face. “I am Vegeta, slayer of Lord Frieza, ruler of the Saiyan race, and conqueror of countless planets, including this one.”

______ _ _

“Vegeta is dead!” shouted another Arcosian who appeared to have a flamethrower. “A ghost! A myth!”

______ _ _

That one was dead before its words finished echoing through the amphitheatre.

______ _ _

Vegeta lowered his arm. “Release her, or this myth will decide your fate for you.”

______ _ _

Instead, the Arcosians attacked, opening fire with whatever weapons they had. A cloud of dust, gunshot, and blazing energy filled the air near Vegeta, who made no effort to move. He was obscured, and surely hit by every single one. She gasped.

______ _ _

The Arcosians did not let up, but with a blast the debris cleared, carried on an unnatural wind. She couldn't see anything but a bright light beyond them, and soon there were sounds of creatures in pain and energy blasts. The bodies in front of her began to thin, to run forward, to scatter, to be shot down. The four eyed alien had run off, shouting words she didn't understand.

______ _ _

Finally, there was no one in between him and her, and he swept over, cape billowing. He made short work of the net and pulled her up by the arm, not as rough as she expected. The relief was immediate, from the weight and the sedative, but it didn't shake off fully even after she was upright. Vegeta moved slowly as he plucked the wiry contraption from her head and dropped it to the ground. Despite his gloves, she could feel the heat and immense power radiating off of him from where they made contact, and was drawn to the intense look in his eyes, a look she couldn’t decipher, one that made her nearly forget his beastial appearance.

______ _ _

“I have you, woman,” he said, surprisingly gentle.

______ _ _

The moment was over as a flash of light blinded them both. Vegeta let out a shout and pitched forward, both toppling back to the ground, his weight heavy on her but thankfully brief. She could smell singed flesh on him, the scent bringing her momentarily back to a brig, her father, the tears. Her senses gave up on receiving input, only sight and touch remaining. Then the Prince roared as he stood, she could feel the vibrations through his body despite lacking hearing, and he turned, deflecting energy blasts coming from every direction. The four eyed alien was back, with a veritable army of Arcosians carrying even bigger weapons.

______ _ _

Something grabbed her arm from behind and Bulma reacted, drawing her pistol and shooting the Arcosian, who went down stunned. Everyone else was running in the opposite direction, blasts of Saiyan energy following them, felling them. She couldn't hear the screams but there were screams from every which way, she felt that someone was shouting her name but she couldn't register it as she turned around, Vegeta the only thing on her mind as he slaughtered them all, the whole army, all the slave traders rendered full of holes or burnt to ash in seconds. It was an immense display of power, one that had her hair standing on end. Saiyans were pouring in from all sides, dragging full nets out from the back and casting them off unsold captives, who ran off trying desperately to avoid the carnage, avoid getting caught as innocent casualties.

______ _ _

Another person had grabbed her arm but this time when Bulma whipped around to shoot the pistol was plucked out of her hand by Kakarot, sparing Raditz from being shot. The long haired Saiyan was shouting at her, but she still couldn't register what he was saying. Everything seemed muddled, the net's effects lingering. Or perhaps, some part of Bulma's brain managed, it was shock.

______ _ _

She was startled by the intense stillness that was left after Vegeta fired his last shot. The amphitheatre was turned to rubble, all the victims freed, everyone else on the ground whole or in pieces. Outside, she could see chunks missing from nearby buildings. A slew of chemicals assaulted her nose as smell came back with a vengeance, iron and copper and others on her nose, burnt meat, the lingering electric smell in the air like after a lightning storm's strike. And it was quiet, not because her ears weren't sending signals but because no one was left. Everything around her was dead, Raditz was telling her they needed to get back to the ship, Kakarot was trying to comfort her, and Vegeta—Vegeta was walking towards her.

______ _ _

His chest was heaving, and she could see sweat, smell salt in the air or perhaps that was from her face, her face was wet. His clothes had ripped with the effort of a fight she hadn't witnessed, and there was dirt across him but no gashes or cuts, no burns, no visible damage. He was staring at her, the same look on his face as before, equally obtuse, as his arms lay limply at his side, fingers loosening from balled fists.

______ _ _

Then, something happened. The aura around Prince Vegeta dissipated with no warning, the air returning to normal temperature. His knees buckled, his skin beginning to flash blue, his hair glowing in a fierce yellow, his body shrinking. Nappa was there in an instant, she hadn't seen him arrive but yet he was at the Prince's side. Bulma shouted, reached out to Kakarot for her pistol without thinking but Raditz enveloped her with his arms and turned her around from the scene, blasting off with her into the air, back toward the ship as an army of Saiyan warriors descended on their monarch like ants, obscuring Vegeta from her view before she could even realize she was airborne.

______ _ _


	13. Pods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery can be difficult.

Bulma had sat silently in Chi-Chi’s living room, covered with a blanket and holding a hot and perpetually-full cup of tea, for hours after Raditz had hauled her back to the castle. Everything was foggy and on unstable ground. Her heart was pounding, her jaw sore from clenching it. She felt like she was watching herself move through the severe exhaustion she was facing with no control over it, merely observing as her thoughts raced from one topic to another, to guilt, to shame, to fear, to numbness.

All of the commotion was over for now. Raditz had left Chi-Chi with instructions to make sure Bulma didn’t go anywhere and to keep her calm, and then ran out once more, presumably back to the Prince. Chi-Chi, mercifully, hadn’t asked Bulma any questions, just immediately jumped into helping her and then sitting with her on the sofa, talking softly about nothing and refilling her mug with lavender tea every time it reached half empty. Little Garban, who had no idea what was going on, had decided to take a nap curled up beside Bulma, holding his stuffed Dragon Ball tight against him, his tiny tail innocently lying along Bulma’s arm.

But none of this snapped Bulma even remotely out of her fog until midday, when both Kakarot and Raditz walked into the quarters, looking exhausted and each falling upon the couch in a heap. Their armor, usually pristine and underused, was chipped, scuffed, covered in stains that she didn't want to think about. Chi-Chi moved to sit beside her husband, Kakarot looking up at her with heavy eyes as she ran a hand through his hair. Bulma couldn’t read the look they exchanged, but it appeared a seamless movement when the couple shifted to have him rest in Chi-Chi’s lap.

“Is everyone okay?” Bulma said timidly.

Raditz nodded, his eyes shut. “No Saiyan casualties. The Prince is secure in the pods.”

Chi-Chi took a deep breath. “What happened?” she said, the first question she’d asked all day.

“Bulma took off without us this morning and went to the planet,” Kakarot said, his eyes shut as his wife continued to pet his head.

“What?!” she shouted, her sudden volume startling her son out of his nap for a moment. “Are you insane?!”

Bulma stared into her tea as Raditz chimed in. “She got picked up by the slave traders. Vegeta killed them all.”

Chi-Chi gasped. “He left the ship? But he hasn't left the ship since…” She shook her head. “Why?”

“He saved me,” Bulma blurted out. “He said I was his.”

The Saiyans and Chi-Chi started at that, all looking at each other. She thought, then, of Yamcha. One undeniable benefit to being on this ship was that she didn't have to deal with his nonsense. That man was always trying to make her _his_ too _._ She never was, hadn't been even when they were still together, and always turned her stomach thinking about it. Bulma’s stomach had been turning since she landed on Arcose, but it seemed that Prince Vegeta’s words weren’t making that problem any worse.

“Well,” said Chi-Chi, “He probably just meant you were his crew.”

Yes, Chi-Chi was right. Probably he was just protective of her, as an asset. As a prisoner. As an engineer. Bulma sank back against the sofa cushions again.

“We have to report back soon,” Raditz said, making Kakarot grunt with displeasure. “Tarble will tan our tails if we don't take up the guard.”

“Take something to eat with you, at least,” Chi-Chi said, dashing into the kitchen and returning with two little containers.

The men both slowly drew themselves up to standing, Kakarot heading into the bedroom. He returned wearing a new set of armor, throwing an identical set at his brother, who begrudgingly swapped his out and pointedly ignored when Kakarot drew his wife into a quick farewell embrace.

As Kakarot exited the quarters with the lunches, Bulma stood herself, earning a warning look from Chi-Chi who had scooped Garban up and was bringing him to his bed. She silently walked to Raditz, who watched her warily but did not react beyond flinching when she grasped his hand between her own.

“Thank you for bringing me back,” she said solemnly.

Raditz had an unreadable expression on his face, but was clearly struggling to find words. “It was nothing,” he managed. “You are part of the crew. And you are my friend.”

Bulma felt doused with warm water as he said that, some of the numbness of the day leaving her. Raditz pulled his hand away with surprising gentleness and clapped it on her shoulder awkwardly. Then, he followed his brother out.

She returned to the couch and sat there a few moments, feeling like an engine that had been stored for decades, her brain finally starting to shake the dust and turn over. Before her thoughts fully rebooted, the resident housewife laid a plate in front of her full of some grey stuff she didn't recognize but smelled delicious.

“Thank you,” she said automatically. “But you know you don't have to wait on me. I'm okay.”

The look Chi-Chi gave her was distilled _get real,_  and the black haired woman dropped utensils on her lap and then grabbed the teapot.

“When I first came here,” she said, refilling Bulma's mug for the seventh time, “I didn't like it much. They had me rotating in different soldier's posts.” (Bulma remembered back to a previous conversation, one where they'd talked about martial arts tournaments.) “I tried to get Goku to run away from the ship after a few months. Raditz talked us out of it.” She poured a mug for herself, fiddling with sweetener and creamer. “Eventually Tarble decided to have me work as a cook for the elite officers, though. And you know what?” Her brown eyes fixed on Bulma's blue ones. “I loved it. I stayed in that position for the rest of my time here, until I was so pregnant with Gohan that I couldn't anymore. Now I take care of my boys, and I can't imagine being elsewhere.”

Bulma took a swig of her mug, thinking and trying not to think about her mother. “Why are you telling me this?” she said, voice flat.

“Because, Bulma,” she responded, annoyed. “If you're here, you might as well try to be happy.”

“I'm a captive.”

“You chose this,” Chi-Chi shot back. “Maybe it wasn't a fair decision, but you did. I don't blame you for wanting to leave, but what you did today was unfathomably reckless. And I know you like being in engineering. Do you really hate being here?”

She didn't have an answer for that.

Chi-Chi sighed and sipped from her mug. “If I were you, I'd try to find what makes you want to get up in the morning, and stay.”

Bulma didn't have an answer to that either. “Okay,” she said simply.

Chi-Chi smiled, then nodded toward the plate on the coffee table. “Now eat.”

* * *

Because it was between shifts, or maybe because of the unusual circumstances of landing on a planet, killing most of the inhabitants, and then being recalled, the halls were devoid of people as Bulma walked about. She was without her official guards during the day for the first time since arriving, and to be honest it was uncomfortable. She'd gotten used to the sons of Bardock dutifully following her around, and rather liked their company. That in and of itself was a bit of a shock.

The guilt over the whole situation was also nearly unbearable, and perplexing on top of it. She kept telling herself she shouldn't feel guilty at all, given the situation. She had been conscripted, sort of, was only here after bargaining to save her father, and escaping was logical when the ship was being run by a crazed and violent madman.

Maybe, though, that wasn't completely fair. Her thoughts had the events of the morning on repeat, but like a skipping record kept getting stuck on the rescue. Even net-addled it was so clear now. The glow of his skin. The warmth through his gloves. The gentle tone in his voice. Emotions that seemed to go beyond someone who was simply recapturing a prisoner, or saving a crew member. He had come after her and didn't even seem angry, and now he was in recovery somehow. Maybe, then, that was what was wrenching her heart so much.

Well, Bulma Briefs distinctly did not like the feeling of guilt and grief, and so she set a new plan into motion. First, she was going to find where the Prince was being kept. She had medical supplies with her, left over from her rescue of her father, and she was sure some of them could help. Even if they didn't, she was sure she'd feel better if she tried. Then, she was going to get off the ship again. That was still the goal...right?

Task number one regardless was to find where Vegeta was being housed during his recovery. Raditz had said something about pods, and she had a vague memory of Tarble mentioning something similar when she had first arrived on the ship. Whatever they were there had to be medical supplies, so she needed to figure out where they were kept. She pulled up her self-annotated map and scanned through the rooms. One of them that she'd translated early on read “sick bay”, so she figured that was as good a place as any to start.

A few minutes of walking and trying not to think too much about the Prince later, Bulma rounded the corner to the sick bay corridor. Kakarot was standing by an archway, holding a spear and bedecked in full royal guard regalia. Hopefully that was a good sign.

“Hey,” she called.

“Hi Bulma,” he answered, cheerful but still looking exhausted. Nestled into the archway was a big metal door, one that she would bet was locked. “Why are you here?”

After a mini debate between being truthful or not, she waved toward the door. “I wanted to see the sick bay. Are the pods in there?”

The Saiyan looked uncomfortable, rubbing his free hand behind his head. “Yeah, they are. But you can't go inside.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

Kakarot looked at her like she was the dumbest person alive, which to be frank was insulting. “Bulma, the _Prince_ is in there. Nobody can go in there without Tarble’s permission.”

To hell with being truthful then. “But I have Tarble's permission,” she said, trying not to shuffle her feet. “He's the one who called me down here. He wants me to do...pod maintenance.”

The Saiyan perked up. “Oh! He didn't mention that to me.” With a push of a few buttons, the heavy metal swished open, nearly silently. “Here you go!”

Bulma smiled and thanked him and ducked through the entrance to sick bay. As the door closed behind her, that drooping feeling in her stomach came back. Taking advantage of Kakarot's naivete didn't sit right with her...but it was with good intentions, she told herself. She was going to make things better.

It seemed as though only emergency lighting was on here, that or Saiyans preferred their medical care to be done by dim red lamps. There was a faint humming in the room, rhythmic and occasionally interspersed with beeps. A few sterile looking metal tables were dotted about, separated with rows of cabinets or drawers that she hoped were full of medical supplies. Through an archway, she could see bluish light, pulsing slightly in time with the humming. She stepped towards it, and as she moved forward she could hear a voice speaking softly.

“You can't keep doing this, brother,” the voice said. It was Tarble, and Bulma’s heart started to pound. She was almost at the archway now, and upon reaching it she dared to stick her head around it to look. “You wouldn't have fallen if you'd been taking care of yourself.”

Inside the second room were three large machines, positioned at equal intervals along the wall. Tarble was facing one of them, looking incredibly unkempt, hair on head and tail frazzled and usual uniform askew. She couldn't see into that particular machine, but the other two had some bluish liquid behind a clear screen. Those had to be the pods. It was hard to make out the details, but it seemed like there was some sort of tube hanging down inside. She'd guess that Vegeta was inside the third pod, and maybe the tube was a rebreather or something? She'd have to investigate later.

“More importantly,” Tarble was saying, “I can't keep doing this. Neither can the ship. Or the crew.” He was almost limp, none of the usual pompousness of the chief of staff visible, slumping even against the side of the machine.

There was a brief pause and a bubbling noise.

“Don't give me that look,” Tarble snapped. “I know you know this, Vegeta, even if you refuse to listen to me. This is unsustainable. You can't keep this form up any longer, you have to rest!”

More bubbles, more violent this time. Bulma tried to crane her head around the doorframe more, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside of the tank…and not Tarble's notice.

“Being in the pods every night does not count as rest. When was the last time you slept? In an actual bed?”

There was a dull thudding noise and more bubbles, like someone had pounded on glass from the inside.

Tarble shook his head, done with the whole thing. He stood there for a while, leaning on the machine with a hand over his face. Bulma took that moment to turn around, head back into the main room of the sick bay.

So, she wasn't going to be able to help in any capacity until Tarble left. New plan was needed. Maybe once he was gone she could somehow pull Vegeta out of the pod thing, administer a senzu bean, and otherwise apply some medical care. Then again, maybe she could render her lie to Kakarot a truth and try and do some maintenance and upgrades to the machinery, make it run more efficiently. If everything in this castle was run down, the pods had to be too. And potentially overused on top of that.

“I'm going to go now,” Tarble said, voice muffled. “I'll be back once you've rested.”

Bulma panicked, looking around for a hiding spot and not finding any that wouldn't be incredibly obvious. She bolted for the door. There was a clicking sound, feet on the hard floor of the other room. Footsteps. She tried to run, tried to get past the metal, but the door wouldn't open and there was no handle, the pinpad beside it refusing to work for her, locked on both sides. Just as Bulma turned around the footsteps stopped ringing throughout the room and Tarble stood there, backlit in the dim blue light.

The chief of staff deflated. “I should have known it would be you.”

* * *

Moments later, Bulma was escorted back to engineering by Nappa, who Tarble had specifically called down from the bridge. Raditz had returned from wherever he'd been posted and launched into how gullible and soft hearted his brother was, Kakarot just sheepishly rubbing the back of his head.

Nappa hadn't said a word while they'd walked, just looked grumpy and vaguely tired until they reached engineering. Upon arriving, he simply said, “Stay here,” and then took off.

Bulma, shoulders slouched and arms heavy, set to her normal task of attempting to fix the entire ship, grumbling to herself about how she was banished from all the interesting stuff. But it was fine, she decided a little later. She'd try to get to the Prince tomorrow.

* * *

“No.”

“Tarble—”

“I said no, Bulma.”

Kakarot and Raditz had been posted outside the door to Vegeta’s room for three days now, but apparently since the last time she’d tried to con her way past them their chief of staff had stepped up security, meaning that Tarble himself had taken up an additional spot outside the door. Bulma, for her part, had free reign of the ship while Vegeta was recovering. Unfortunately, she wasn't too keen on using her newfound freedom. Instead, she hovered outside the door to the second room she was barred from.

“Why not?” Bulma asked, frowning at him. “He's been in there for three days. That can't be good.”

Raditz chimed in from the door. “Are you a doctor in Saiyan biology now?” he drawled, sarcasm practically dripping from every word.

“Oh, hardy har, funnyman,” she spat, cutting off Tarble before he could launch into his obvious reprimand. “I didn't ask you. And I _do_ have experience with xenobiology, thank you very much.”

Behind them, Kakarot whispered, “What's xenobiology?” He was quickly hushed when Tarble shot a threatening glare at him.

She crossed her arms. “Look, I have medical supplies of my own, I can speed up his recovery. You can't have any medics on board. And on top of that, I can probably fix those pods up, make them more efficient—”

“Your newfound interest in the Prince’s well-being is admirable, Lady Bulma,” Tarble said, having none of it, “But your assistance is not needed. If you would go back to your post, I will be glad to inform you when—”

“I just want to help you!” she shouted, throwing her hands up. “It's my fault he's hurt in the first place, and I just—”

“Yes, this mess _is_ your fault, Bulma,” Tarble snapped at her, which made her stop in her tracks. “To be frank, this is an incredibly delicate situation. My brother has not left the castle in years, and now the first time he has done so _this_ happens.” Tail thrashing, he stepped toward her, fist clenched. In that moment, as she flinched back, the family resemblance was impossible to deny. “You should leave immediately.”

She glanced over at Kakarot and Raditz, who both looked sympathetic but serious. It was obvious that she had no allies on this battle.

“Okay,” Bulma mumbled, ignoring her guilt as she walked out into the corridor. “I’ll be in engineering.” Once out of earshot, she sighed to herself, leaning on the wall. “Fucking Saiyans.”

* * *

Days later, Bulma was angrily tearing apart a warp capacitor when the door to engineering hissed open. Not wanting to interact with anyone, though, she pretended not to hear it as she ripped out faulty wiring. Most likely it was Nappa, who had been assigned to check up on her periodically now that her usual guards were posted in front of Vegeta's healing tank, and Nappa really didn't like her very much. She couldn't say she felt any differently, though. Regardless, not anyone she wanted to talk to.

“Woman!”

She jumped at the sudden shout, banging her head on the panel and swearing. Yeah, that definitely wasn't Nappa. No, it was someone she decidedly wanted to yell at, guilt or no guilt, and her mood was terrible enough to oblige.

Bulma slid out into the main room, glare locking on Vegeta. Part of her, she was surprised to realize, was relieved to see that all of his wounds were gone, as were, she noted, most of his royal garments. He was also slightly wet, a trail of damp footprints behind him. No sign of abnormal glowing or flashing anymore, either. Just as, dare she say fuzzy, as ever.

Oh, and did she mention that he looked _especially_ cross?

“I thought you were supposed to be a genius,” he began, stalking toward her. Mercifully, this time Vegeta stopped before he was up in her face. “It seems I was incorrect, because I have never seen anyone do something so idiotic as you! You should _not_ have left the ship!”

Bulma threw her tools to the side with a clatter. “Well, you shouldn't have been so violent in the throne room!”

“You shouldn't have even been _in_ the throne room!”

“And you should learn to control your temper!”

“My temper?!” he bellowed, slashing through the air with his hand. “My temper is the only thing keeping this ship safe! Keeping people like _you_ from getting sold on the black market!”

“Yeah, and now look at you!” She pointed at him, gesturing up and down the length of his body. “You've been out of commission for a week! Not doing a great job of protecting the ship when you're in those stupid healing pods all the time.”

“That is none of your concern,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Whatever,” she said, walking back to the mess of wires she'd left. “Then this conversation is over.”

She was being whirled around before she knew it, a fuzzy heat catching her wrist and spinning her with a gasp. The Prince’s tail broke contact with her but now he was firmly in her personal space, glaring. “It isn't smart to turn your back on your opponent,” he said in a low voice.

There was a dark look in his eyes, heated and dangerous, that made her stomach flip and a flush spread through her. No way she was unpacking _that_ right now. Instead she just glared at him back. They were silent for a few moments, gazes crackling.

The Prince broke first, dropping his eyes down from her face for a second. “The energy weapons you used on the planet, on my soldiers,” he demanded. “Build me some.”

Bulma balked. “I thought all you wanted me to do is fix the engine.”

The Prince growled at that, caught. “They are an advanced technology that far surpasses anything our enemies could have. They would be a huge asset to the ship.” Bulma blinked, briefly caught off guard by this, but he then continued. “And besides, engineer, it would redeem your asinine idea to try to escape on a planet with a known slave trade!”

“You must be insane,” Bulma shrieked, “To think that someone being held captive wouldn't try to escape!” She thrust her finger toward the Prince's chest, anger intensifying when he caught her wrist effortlessly with his tail before she could make contact. “You're the one who kidnapped me and my father in the first place you moron!”

“Would you have preferred I kill you both instead?!”

Bulma was pulling her hand back now to no avail, only making her arm sore in the process. “You keep saying that like it's a good thing! News flash, asshole, not killing someone doesn't earn you a Nobel Peace Prize! And let go of me!”

“Fine!” Vegeta yanked his tail back—her wrist suddenly felt frigid. He had a severe look to his face, one that threw all his features into a harsh light. He was cold as he spoke again. “If you're so miserable with us, fix the warp engine and I will let you go.”

Her heart skipped a beat in her chest. “What?”

Vegeta turned his back to her, seeming strangely stiff without a cape to accentuate the movement. “It's obvious that you want no part of us. Unlike the _Arcosians,"_ and this he said with venom, “The Saiyan Prince does not make a habit of dealing in slaves.” He glared at her over his shoulder, arms crossed. “But you are seemingly the only person capable of the warp repairs, so that is your condition.”

Her family, her family! One task away from seeing them all again. “Deal!” she shouted, clapping her hands together.

The Prince did not look as thrilled as she felt, frowning especially deeply as he turned back toward the door. “Deal.”

The glow in her heart started to fade a bit as she watched him, back turned to her (the hypocrite). Without all the royal accoutrement, he looked a lot less intimidating, and there was a hunch to his shoulders that just seemed...tired, maybe?

“Vegeta,” Bulma said quietly, unclenching her fists. When he turned around he looked more downtrodden than she expected, and she was surprised when another sharp pang of guilt lanced through her chest. “I'm sorry you were hurt because of me.”

The Prince's expression shifted to confusion, then dismissal. “Stop. Saiyans do not apologise.”

She scoffed. “How many times do I need to tell you idiots that I'm not Saiyan?”

Bulma was surprised again when Vegeta, asshole-of-the-century Vegeta, chuckled. It was a warm sound, low and resonant. Another flush washed over her as he shook his head.

Ignoring the sensation, she said, “If I can't apologize, then...thank you. For saving my life.”

His eyes widened for a moment, before he crossed his arms in front of his chest and angled his body away from her. “You're welcome,” he said, and it was almost softly spoken.

Feeling like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, Bulma grabbed her discarded tools and made to walk into the other room.

“Engineer,” the Prince said from behind her. She turned around to a befuddled face. “There is something I do not understand about you. Tarble said you attempted to heal me. Why?”

She shifted weight from foot to foot, one hand coming up to clutch her elbow. “You were hurt because of me, and I had the supplies. It would have been inhumane not to.”

“I am a Saiyan Prince,” he replied. “I don't need your help.”

Bulma hummed. “Well if that's the case, I guess you don't need me to fix your engine.”

He was silent for a moment, and she was briefly concerned that he was going to go off on her again, but Vegeta laughed this time, quiet but a laugh nonetheless. Bulma felt a tugging at the corners of her mouth in spite of herself.

“Perhaps I should reconsider my choices,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “My engines are being repaired by someone who doesn't even know she has to shoot first on Arcose.”

Bulma harrumphed and turned around. “Well, good luck getting those weapons then.”

Vegeta was laughing again, softer than she thought someone like him could, as he strode out of engineering.

Alone with the hum of the machines once more, she wandered back over to the warp capacitor, wires still spilling out like an upturned glass of water, a project waiting to be finished. For once since she'd tried to escape, she actually felt...pretty good with the whole situation.

“You know,” Bulma said to herself as she flipped open her multitool, “I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere.”


	14. Vegeta Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Vegeta ponders his chief engineer.

Prince Vegeta, king of the Saiyan army, slayer of the cold tyrant Frieza, and ruler of the largest empire in the sector, slouched in his throne in what was once the great ballroom, half listening as his brother droned on about ship business. The reasonable part of him knew that understanding the goings-on of his crew was important for a good leader, but the rest of him was frankly bored of it. Tarble seemed interested in the most inane things, and while Vegeta was more than happy with the lesser prince's performance as chief of staff, he wasn't currently sure why he had to hear about all of the trivialities that came with running a ship, or an empire. It was making his skin itch, and his fingers twitch—a jaunt in the pods could help, a dark part of his brain mentioned, but he ignored that for the time being. It wasn’t even mid-day yet.

“...and we’ve received word from Homeworld that the Saiyan population has reached 200 mated pairs, my liege, with 20 marriages in addition,” Tarble was currently saying, which Vegeta did not care about at all.

The topic that his mind wandered to now, and had wandered to in these meetings for some time, was his newest chief engineer. Bulma. A strange name for a strange woman from a strange race. She perplexed him. Even now he frowned thinking about her elusive behavior. Had he not known better, he would have sworn she came from a warrior race. He had rarely met a non-Saiyan with such an intense spirit, and certainly not one who also had such a strong mechanical inclination. Saiyan engineers were typically lackluster, too focused on their desire to fight to be good problem solvers. And intellects like hers were usually in the meeker species. But Bulma? Well, she was decidedly not meek. Whether that reflected her whole people remained to be seen, since Vegeta hadn’t bothered to look up details about Earth.

“...I believe that the preparations for the Full Moon Festival are also going as planned…”

Regardless. Vegeta shifted in his seat again as he pondered, Tarble's far-too-excited voice completely tuned out. It couldn't be denied that Bulma was fearsome in her own right. Of course, her physical strength was laughable, though he supposed that could be said for everyone on the ship if his own power was the benchmark. No, it was that she seemed to possess the Saiyan-like quality of fearlessness in the face of danger. True, the differences were obvious—she seemed far too aware of her own mortality, even if her self-preservation instincts left much to be desired. Walking around Arcose without her weapons drawn. What an amateur mistake.

“...Nappa has reported that crew morale is at an all time high…”

But the similarities were striking! There were many humanoid species in the galaxy, many even within his own empire. But how many could he think of that had Saiyan-like morphology? A round head, skin in shades of brown (or in her case, cream), prominent hair. He was no doctor, but the musculature and fat deposits even superficially matched that of Saiyan females. Except for the hair color and the lack of tail, and the undeniable under-utilization of those muscles.

Not just matching, though. Exceeding. A restlessness had come into him now, shifting his weight from side to side. Bulma Briefs had a softness to her physical form that contrasted intensely with the hard determination she displayed. In a Saiyan woman, it would have only been present while caring for children, and Vegeta had only seen glimpses of such females throughout his life. The life of a Prince was sheltered from such things. In fact, the only woman he could recall as such was the Queen mother, when she had birthed and was nursing Tarble, before the incubation chambers came into vogue.

“...have finally gotten auxiliary engines fully repaired…”

Vegeta pondered for a moment as to why whenever he thought of his mother, he also thought of his chief engineer. The last time he had seen either of his parents, he'd only been about ten years old. They’d both faced Frieza in their final moments, fighting to the death even though it was clearly a fool’s errand. He had dwelled on the moment so many times through his life that it no longer phased him. His mother had died first, because she’d thrown herself at the cold tyrant in a bid to protect her sons. Queen mother to the end. A thought came unbidden to him—would Bulma have done the same, if she had children? Did she already have children?

“...and I have news about Lady Briefs,” Tarble said, snapping Vegeta out of his guilty daydream. “She reported this morning that she has designed a critical missing piece of the warp field generator. We just need a source of palladium to synthesize it.”

Vegeta quirked an eyebrow, sitting up straight. “Why palladium?”

“I am afraid I don't understand entirely, my Prince. Something about the low melting point and antimatter.”

He nodded. “Very well. Scrounge up any scrap palladium we have.” Tarble’s lip twitched at that, setting Vegeta on edge. “Is there a problem?”

“Well, sire,” he replied hesitantly, “I'm afraid that we don't have scrap in sufficient quantities for her task. The only source we still have is locked up in the healing pod casings.”

Something icy hot lanced through Vegeta’s chest at that, and there was a cracking sound as his fingers tightened around the armrests of the throne. It was irrational, but the thought of one of the pods being gone was...he couldn’t finish the thought.

“Sire?”

“Can she make the generator any smaller?” Vegeta barked out, ignoring a pounding heart.

“That would not be advised.” Tarble pulled up a schematic and projected a hologram into the air. The image before him was covered in scribbles, a language he couldn’t read. Bulma's notes. Tarble circled a bit of the diagram, zoomed in. Vegeta was not well-versed in the mechanics of the engine, but he was fluent enough to know that they were looking at the four external warp nacelles as they interfaced with the core. “The generator has to be big enough to power a warp bubble through all the nacelles at once,” his brother said.

“Fine,” Vegeta bit out, forcing himself to lean back in his chair. “But she is expected to repair the pod as soon as we can acquire more palladium.”

“Are you certain, my liege?”

Vegeta pinched the bridge of his snout. “Don't make me repeat myself, Tarble. Give the woman what she wants so we can finish our repairs.”

Tarble made a swift note on his data pad, a slow smile spreading across his face, one that made Vegeta very uncomfortable. “As you wish.” He tucked the pad into a pocket on his uniform. “I have nothing left to report, then.”

“Hmph. Yet it seems you still have something to say.”

“Ah, brother,” Tarble said, chuckling, “I suspect you are becoming as fond of her as the rest of the crew.”

Vegeta let out a growl without thinking. “Hardly. The rest of the crew thinks of her as a fuck object.”

Tarble shook his head. “Not true. Rumors of her escape spread through the ranks—mostly truthful, though I must say there were a few embellishments. I believe one of the soldiers swears he saw her shoot you through the tower.”

Vegeta made a mental note to find that soldier and kill him.

“They seem to think of her more as a spitfire, as it were.”

“And does that line of thought stop the crew's more basal desires?” Vegeta grumbled. “Or is it knowing that the head of the royal guard is warming her bed that stops them?”

Tarble sighed and rolled his eyes—something Vegeta only forgave because he was kin. “This again. You assigned him to her, you can't really distrust him so much as to believe unfounded whispers about illicit relationships.”

Vegeta’s eyes briefly wandered to a tapestry on the wall, one he recalled moving from the throne room years ago. “Relationships can be dangerous, Tarble. A liability.”

“You’ve let Kakarot keep his mate on board, and neither of them have been compromised.” Tarble cocked an eyebrow of his own, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Who is Lady Brief’s involvement with the crew truly a liability for, hmm?”

In response, the Prince silently crossed his arms over his chest.

“Vegeta,” said Tarble now, quietly. “I am sure I don't have to tell you that she is the fiercest woman we have met. A weapons expert, a technical genius. She is _not_ defenseless. The only other woman I’ve known that is such a worthy adversary was our own mother.”

“A queen that can’t fight is not fit to be queen,” Vegeta said with a glare. “ _Our_ Queen was a savage conqueress of many worlds, just as our King was. She’s hardly fit for that.”

Tarble chuckled again, the sound grating on his ears. “Brother, I never supposed that Bulma would be a queen. That was all your suggestion.” Vegeta ignored that and tried to fight the sudden embarrassing heat to his skin. “Though I must say, if we _are_ discussing her value as a queen—”

“She still can't fight,” Vegeta replied automatically, as though he'd been convincing himself of this. “She is worthless as a Saiyan.”

Tarble huffed. “Let me ask you then, as your brother and not your chief of staff. Do you think me worthless because I cannot fight?”

Vegeta hesitated a moment. “That's not the same.”

“Is it?” Tarble's tail lashed about, now, annoyed. “Am I not just like her? Defenseless? Unfit and undeserving?”

“I didn't—”

“Even of you think she isn't fit to be Saiyan,” Tarble said with a glare and a hint of a growl, “Bulma is perfectly fit to be an engineer and appears to be holding her own. We need her help for these repairs. You said so yourself.”

“It doesn't matter,” Vegeta said quickly, backpedaling. “She doesn't even want to stay here.”

“Do you want her to _want_ to stay?” Tarble shot back.

Vegeta didn't have a response to that one either. He really hated Tarble sometimes. Too smart for his own good.

Tarble glanced away for a moment and took a breath, displaying a mastery of his temper that Vegeta occasionally envied. “I want her to stay,” he said when he had composed himself. “I think she is invaluable to the ship.” 

The Prince slumped in his chair, unsure if he was more angry or put out. “She doesn’t seem interested in that.”

“I don't think she's disinterested, my liege,” Tarble continued. “I've seen her throw herself into this work, the repairs. She genuinely seems to enjoy it.” He shook his head in bewilderment at that. “But I do think she needs something.”

“Spit it out.”

“Companionship, Vegeta.” Tarble’s face softened for a moment. “She’s lost her family because of us.”

Prince Vegeta was about to snarl a biting comment, but he stopped himself. To be sure, Saiyans knew much about the loss of family—gods, they had gone through a species level genocide, which had taken his mother, his father, a good portion of his childhood court—but this did not invalidate Bulma's own loss, he realized. No. His mind replayed the moments of a scared child under Frieza’s dominion, longing and lonely. It was not so difficult to imagine her instead, curled in upon herself in engineering, in her quarters. Though he supposed her solitude was somewhat voluntary, it would be remiss of him to claim that he was not at fault.

Vegeta leaned back in his throne, lips pursed. “Tell me, Tarble. What sort of companionship do you have in mind?”

* * *

As Vegeta entered engineering that evening, the first thing he noticed was the _noise_. Any awkwardness he had felt standing outside the room evaporated into annoyance. As soon as the doors slid open, his hands were clamping over his ears. Loud, tinny drums over a deep artificial pulsing, a female singer (if you could call her that) whose pitch was overly processed, and something that sounded like metal crashing together in a mockery of a rhythm. Over the din a second voice, much more out of tune, was wailing along to the lyrics in a language he didn't understand. The source of that, he found as he glared around the room, was of course Bulma, singing badly and wiggling her hips as she took a blowtorch to a missing panel on the engine, perched on top of a raised platform. The rest of the noise seemed to be coming out of every goddamn speaker.

“Woman!” he shouted, but she didn't hear him. How could she with so much trash assaulting her ears? He stomped over, wishing he had thicker gloves to cover his ears with. “ _Woman!_ ” Still nothing, even from six feet away. Finally, angry, he just flew up into her field of vision and waved his elbows awkwardly, hands still glued to the side of his head.

She startled, apparent even through the welding mask she was wearing, and when her torch died the reflections of light gave way to large blue eyes, round with surprise. When she ripped the mask off, though, they were still full of fire. Bulma pressed a button that was attached to her jumpsuit and the music died, to his immense relief.

“Thank you,” he grumbled out. “That was atrocious.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bulma said, her hand coming up to rest against her collarbone in offense. “Here I am, minding my own business, listening to Earth's greatest pop stars—” (Vegeta rolled his eyes) “—and fixing your engines, and you have the gall to tell me it's atrocious?” She made a clucking noise with her tongue and made her way down the ladder. “I think this may be the worst thing you've done to me yet, Prince Vegeta.”

“It was so _loud_ ,” he protested as he floated after her.

“Forgive me for not catering to your delicate royal ears.”

Vegeta pointedly ignored his annoyance and the strange twinge that ran through him at her barb. “How did you even do that?”

“Oh please. Like it's hard to rewire some loudspeakers. You know what was hard?” she said, putting her torch down, “Getting a copy of this music on your server.”

“That nonsense is not music,” he growled. “Saiyans have music, and this saccharine _bullshit_ is not that.” He waved his arms vaguely at the speakers on the wall. “Our music is steeped in our history, full of war myths and stories of—”

“As much as I really want to hear your history lesson, I'm a little preoccupied,” Bulma said as she crossed her arms. “Did you just come down here to insult my music tastes, or do you need something?”

The annoyance was gone now, and Vegeta resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. He cleared his throat instead, stood up straighter with his hands behind his back. “I wanted to discuss your role on the ship.”

Bulma visibly steeled herself and narrowed her eyes are him. “I've been working on fixing the warp core like you asked—”

Fuck. “No, woman, let me speak—”

“Please don't call me that,” Bulma spat, and that was like a bucket of ice water dumped in him. Shit. Had he been calling her _woman_ this whole time?

Vegeta felt his tail wrap tightly around his waist and cleared his throat again. “Engineer, I've decided to alter your role slightly.” Before she could say anything to the contrary, he quickly bit out, “I want to give you more freedoms on the ship.”

She froze. “What?”

The dumbfounded look on her face was so against her character that he averted his eyes, rocking back on his heels for a moment. “I have decided that you are allowed full creative control of everything mechanical on the vessel. And you'll have no more restrictions in where you can go.”

She just stood there, hand against her lips to hide a slack jaw. After a moment, her fingers curled around her shoulders. “I don't know what to say.”

Damn, she looked so small and soft. He was used to her being inflated and sharp. Vegeta cleared his throat again and waved at nothing in particular. “If my suggestion isn't welcome—"

“Oh no!” Bulma's hands shot up through the air. “No, this is fantastic.” She was smiling now—no, grinning. “I've had so many ideas in mind for this…” She trailed off for a second, her gaze focused on something behind him, enrapt in her own ideas. There was an undeniable spark in her eyes when she looked back at him. “I don't even know where I could begin!”

Vegeta felt his lips curl in a smile of his own. “I could offer a few suggestions if your mind is really that empty.”

Bulma made an offended noise and then suck her tongue out at him. The Prince wasn't sure what the significance of that was, but he suspected it was intended to be insulting. “Go away,” she said now, turning her back to him and grabbing her torch again. Was that a smile lingering on her face though, as she climbed back on the ladder?

Prince Vegeta elected to be merciful and excuse her treasonous behavior, feeling rather surprised (and pleased) that neither of them had erupted. “Get to it,” he shouted after her, backing toward the door. “I hope that was worth the history lesson.”

Bulma set her welding mask back on the top of her head, obscuring her face as she called back, “Tell me some actual history next time, and maybe it will be!”

She pressed the button on her clothes just as the door to engineering opened behind him, but luckily the doors were shut by the time the tidal wave of noise hit, accompanied just faintly by an out of tune Bulma getting back to work.

Prince Vegeta, emperor of the sector, liberator of the masses from Lord Frieza, and reigning king of his namesake planet, was grinning cheerily as he headed off to his pods.


	15. Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries are made on the ship and on Namek.

Bulma woke up the next day with a renewed energy she hadn't felt in months, even before the Saiyan ship. The possibilities sparkled before her, like sunlight reflecting across an ocean. She spent most of her morning just making a massive list, brainstorming ideas of what to fix and tinker with, then categorizing them by effort needed vs urgency. By the time she was hungry for lunch, she had everything in priority order and broken down into subtasks.

It wasn't until midday, with only a few hours left on the shift, that Bulma actually made it down to engineering with her digitized task list on her notepad. As she stepped through the main doors, every little detail of the machinery caught her eye afresh. Had she really never seen the inefficiencies of the wiring before now? The broken paneling? The sheer ineptitude of the inertial dampeners? She was practically salivating over it, rubbing her hands together with glee.

The day before Vegeta's announcement she'd managed to get the auxiliary engines completely fixed, much to Tarble's delight. They were moving much faster now, or so he claimed, maybe even able to advance their trip to the next planet up a week or two. Either way, Bulma figured she'd bought herself a little leeway to explore the underpinnings of the ship.

By the time her shift was about over, she'd managed to completely repair the cleaning bots, prying one of the miniature hatches open with a crowbar and yanking the dormant contraption out. Bulma had cooed over the little thing as she disassembled it, a round metal orb with compartments for cleaning tools. The mystery was in understanding what was wrong with it, and it had taken her a few hours to realize the issue was with the charging system. After a replaced rusted conduit, and getting showered in a lot of grease and dust from climbing into the wall, all of the floorboards were glowing a cheery yellow as the robots rebooted.

“Damn, I'm good,” Bulma said to herself, spinning her tool around her finger for a moment before promptly dropping it on her toe.

One undignified shriek and foot-clutch later, Bulma and her wounded pride found themselves with time to spare. The next few tasks on her list weren't worth starting before her shift ended, so she pondered the room, chewing on her lip.

Ah! Her eyes landed on the viewscreen leading to the bridge and the exterior cameras. She had been so annoyed with their grayscale displays since getting here—and really, what was the point of having a camera if it couldn't display the full visible spectrum? (Bulma wondered for a moment if Saiyans could see outside the visible spectrum. She'd have to ask someone later.)

That was how Bulma found herself wrist-deep in the contraption, a series of tools laid out haphazardly beside her, along with a technical manual that she really couldn't understand yet but had flipped open to an image of the viewscreen. Translating the Saiyan text was a slow procedure to say the least, but she'd managed to repair more complicated things with just her brain and two hands. Getting a screen to display colors should be child's play.

There was a mechanical warble as someone rang the doorbell to engineering. “Come in!” she shouted, not looking up until the door had already opened with a hiss.

The sons of Bardock strode in first, made up in their regular armor again, and she beamed at both of them. Kakarot was grinning right back, and Raditz had a bright look in his eyes. “Hello!” she called.

The third figure to walk in, though, was a bit more surprising. “Good afternoon,” Prince Vegeta said, arms crossed behind his back. He looked rather calm, actually. Well, at least compared to yesterday, when he’d seemed downright spooked.

“Hello.” Bulma hopped up to her feet, wiping dust off her hands. “Don’t you have other things to do than check up on me?” she questioned.

Vegeta waved his hands toward the brothers Bardock, who took up stations beside the main door. “Well, as my personal guards are no longer assigned to you, I assumed you required checking in on.”

Bulma snorted as she plopped back down next to the screen. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

She set to working again, flipping the pages of the manual so that the screen was displayed once more. Just as she found the paragraph she’d been translating, a shadow loomed over her. She looked up to a puzzled muzzle. “What are you doing?” Vegeta asked.

The screen, taken apart as it was, made a hollow ringing sound as she rapped her knuckles against it. “Fixing this.”

The eye roll Vegeta performed was so overdramatic it was almost audible. “I know that, Engineer. _What_ are you doing? Specifically.” He jabbed toward the screen with his tail.

She raised an eyebrow, cautiously pointing at the disassembled components. “I’m trying to get your screen to show color.”

“And the problem is?”

Bulma picked up a thick, plasticine film and gingerly wobbled it. Vegeta crouched in a squat to ponder the object. “Well, if your screens are anything like ours on Earth, this should be full of liquid crystals to make colored pixels, but I have no idea what it is.”

The Prince’s eyes scanned the object, then the technical manual on the floor. He made a haughty huffing noise and smirked. He tapped the page with his finger, hunching over almost comically to reach the ground. “It’s a holographic system,” he said. “Says so right here.”

“Oh, of course!” The palm of her hand made a loud smack as she brought it to her forehead. “There’s so many holograms around, I can’t believe I didn’t realize that sooner.” She held the film up to the light above, and sure enough, it projected greyscale cubes into the space between her and the Prince. Probably just a matter of synthesizing a new film with three layers of colors...not that that would be easy...

Vegeta chuckled as he stood. “Are our technical manuals too challenging for you, Earth creature?”

“Um, excuse me,” Bulma said, popping to her feet, “Your manual isn’t the problem, thank you very much—it’s the fact that I have to stop every ten seconds to translate a sentence.” She pulled up a page filled with geometric symbols that were supposedly letters and shoved it toward his face. “It’s been three weeks since I came onboard and that’s hardly enough time to learn a new language.” At least when Bulma had been learning English she’d had an app for it.

“First you need history lessons, now linguistic demonstrations,” Vegeta quipped, resting a fist against his chin. “You are desperately lacking in Saiyan culture.” He raised an eyebrow, the mirth on his face shining through the beastly features. “Perhaps you need a tutor?”

A strange heat came to Bulma’s cheeks, one that she tried to dispel with a shake of her head.

Vegeta pursed his lips. “A translator, then?”

Oh, he must have thought...well, never mind. A translator? Yeah, she supposed one of the things she was missing with the brothers Bardock being gone was the occasional help with the words. “I guess you could station Kakarot or Raditz here again. I wouldn't mind the company.”

A scowl flashed over Vegeta’s face, seemingly unbidden, but it was only for a moment. “They’re busy.”

Bulma looked past him at the aforementioned Saiyans, who despite being at their posts near the doors were playing some sort of game with their spears. “Sure they are. Well, who else then?” She waved her hand about. “Everyone else I know is busy too.”

The Prince crossed his arms thinking about it, looking off to the side. Running through a list maybe? “The ideal choice is my brother.”

“He's _actually_ busy,” Bulma chuckled.

Vegeta smiled. He actually looked rather pleasant when he smiled. “No doubt.”

From the peanut gallery, Kakarot chimed in. “What about you, sire?” he called. “You're not that busy.”

(Raditz said a long string of Saiyan words that Bulma didn't know, but from the way his head fell in his hands she would bet that it was an elaborate curse. Or maybe a prayer, if Saiyans prayed.)

The Prince went through a complex series of facial expressions in a few seconds, ranging from surprised to insulted to contemplative. His tail lashed back and forth as he considered.

“It's not the worst idea,” he said finally.

Bulma pursed her lips. “No offense, your highness, but how much engineering experience do you have to translate with?”

“I had an expensive education before Frieza,” he said bluntly, almost looking bored. “My ability to read technical Saiyan terms is leagues ahead of yours.”

Bulma flipped to a random page and pointed out one of the few words she knew. “What does this say?”

“Coaxial warp drive,” he recited, which was indeed what it said.

She closes the book. “And do you know what it does?”

An annoyed look crossed his face. “Folds space-time for faster than light travel.”

Yeah, okay, so he did know a bit about what he was talking about. She bit her lip, considering the idea of him hanging around with her in engineering long term. Well, she supposed he might bring Kakarot and Raditz with him, if today was any similar. That would be nice. He'd been being a lot more civil to her lately, too. Not sure what that was about. Though the idea of spending time with him when he was ornery was the opposite of appealing.

“Eh, fine,” she said. “We'll give it a shot. You're hired.”

The offended look on his face was totally worth it. 

* * *

Namek, as always, didn't have a lot going on. It had been three weeks now since Bulma had been kidnapped, and Dr. Briefs had put all non-essential plans on hold as he pored through Bulma's translations for information on the Saiyans. He'd begrudgingly handed his new lab assistant a sizable stack as well, and anytime he wasn't doing critical maintenance on the water pumps he was in his lab reading.

Countless hours later and he'd isolated every passage about Saiyans into one composite document, and he found himself staying up into the late hours of the bright night reading, reading, reading. Most of what he had found so far wasn't novel—warrior spacefaring race, monarchy. In fact, some of the entries were quite dated—no mention of the Cold Empire or the new Saiyan Empire anywhere to be found. Tonight was no different—his wife had given up trying to get him to come to bed at a reasonable time, and this time she’d just brought him a cup of coffee and a kiss before going to sleep. That was hours ago.

His eyes catching the time on a nearby clock, Dr. Briefs let his head drop to his work desk with a thunk. The rational part of his brain understood that working himself to the bone wouldn’t bring Bulma back any faster—no, it would just burn him out and make him work less efficiently. The rest of him had been replaying her voice as she’d called after him, sharp even through the pain of his leg, the way she’d reached after him as he was brought out of the brig of that ship, curled up on the floor where he’d been.

He took a deep breath and let it out, scratch paper with frenzied writings blowing everywhere.

There was a grating shriek at the door as someone held down the buzzer, and his head erupted then, splitting in half. Damn. All the coffee. Not bothering to bring his head up, he flailed his hand toward the sound and the door opened with a fierce hiss, letting the perpetual light in for a second until the intruder had cleared the vestibule.

Yamcha raced to his desk, slamming a datapad down with enough force to throw all his pens and his stylus to the floor with a clatter. “Look!” he shouted, sending another throb through Dr. Briefs’ skull.

“Go to bed, Yamcha,” he said, too irritable to question his own hypocrisy.

“No, look!” He pointed at the datapad with vigor. “I found out what Vegeta is!”

Headache or no, he jumped to attention, swiping the pad with renewed energy. Before him was a scanned section of text beside Bulma’s digitized translation. He scrolled back to the beginning of the file to start anew. As he moved through, the text was fragmentary, with large swaths missing, but as he read he could piece it together.

Yamcha stood beside him, bouncing with nervous energy from foot to foot despite prominent bags under his eyes. When Dr. Briefs finally looked up, he leaned down and ran his finger along a key passage. “ _A beast most monstrous in form at the full moon falls at the fingertips of even the youngest child_ ,” he intoned, “ _But to the most unwavering is unlocked a legendary creature, a transformation of unimaginable but fleeting strength_. That sounds like it could be that Prince, right?”

He huffed. “It seems Moori was wrong about Saiyans being able to transform.” What a shame that the Namekians had lost so much of their culture. (He would prefer not to consider whether Moori was telling the truth or not.) “What do we do with this information, Yamcha?” he said after a moment’s reflection.

“We can use it to convince the others,” the younger man snapped. “We can get help from the rest of us and the Namekians.”

Dr. Briefs considered this for half a second before shaking his head.

“What’s the problem now?” Yamcha grumbled.

“I don’t think any of your friends are going to be receptive to using Bulma’s translations for anything. From what she told me,” Dr. Briefs said, rounding on his companion, “You didn’t much appreciate her efforts either.”

“Sure, at first I thought it was a waste of time,” Yamcha said bluntly, which Dr. Briefs might have admired if it didn’t revile him so, “But now I see that it’s actually useful. I’m sure the others will feel the same way.”

“Terribly convenient, my boy,” he droned. “Whatever suits you. For now, perhaps I would suggest getting some sleep, and working on convincing everyone else of this in the morning.”

There was a light in the younger man’s eyes then, one that even hid the exhaustion. How much had Yamcha been sleeping, he wondered idly? Had he been pulling as late hours? It didn’t matter. The former bandit just nodded, snagged the datapad back, and was out the door, the blinding light streaming in for only a second.

Dr. Briefs sagged against the back of his chair for a moment, the very last of his energy reserves spent and his caffeine headache returning full force. Now, he decided, was good a time as any to go crawl into bed next to his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks. I'm as grateful as ever for your patience with this project! I know I don't keep much of a regular update schedule -- I work a really hectic job that doesn't leave a lot of time to write, but I try to eke out as much as I can! Thank you all once again for all your comments, they really give me an incentive to post as much as I can! <3


	16. Palladium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Translation begins.

At first, Vegeta didn't say much when he began translating for her. He'd arrive with Kakarot and Raditz a few minutes after Bulma would get to engineering, and then would spend most of the day with whatever manual she needed him to work on. By the end of her shift, she'd usually have a decent chunk of notes about the components she was working with. What she learned in those first couple of days was that Vegeta’s handwriting was surprisingly neat and prim, with more loops and curves that she had expected. Not that she'd given it much thought, mind you, but Bulma had pegged him to have blocky writing with sharp edges. She'd also figured out that Vegeta didn't like to talk when he was focused on something, which was totally fine by her.

Within a week, though, the Saiyan Prince had outpaced Bulma's need for specific sections of manuals. Yesterday he had even left early. The parts she’d been fashioning were brand new and of her own design, and she was writing rather than reading technical manuals. In fact, today was the day she was going to synthesize the missing warp field generator pieces, assuming her palladium extraction would go well. Tarble had supplied a bunch of scrap metal for her, but this morning she'd have to head into the medical wing of the ship to pull the rest off the healing pods.

Vegeta and his guards arrived as per usual while Bulma was gathering her equipment into a toolbox. “Good morning,” she said, and he hummed and nodded at her.

“Engineer.” He paused by the door, searching the room for a book to work on. “What for today?” he questioned, not seeing any.

“I don't think I need anything translated,” she said, spinning a multitool around in her hands. “I have to go get palladium to melt down.”

Prince Vegeta visibly steeled himself at that. She could see his jaw set and everything, fangs especially prominent. Behind him, Kakarot and Raditz both straightened and glanced at each other.

“Is that a problem?” she asked. Last time she'd mentioned it Tarble had given her the go ahead...

“No,” Vegeta barked out. He'd crossed his arms, and his tail had come to snugly wrap around his waist under the usual cape. “No problems.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, but honestly they hadn't had a bad interaction since he'd started hanging out in Engineering and she wasn't willing to risk it on a single cup of synthesized coffee. “All right.” Hooking a strap into her toolbox, she slung it over her shoulders and started toward the doors. “You don't have to stick around today.”

The Prince kept his eyes on her, something reminiscent of suspicion there. “I am accompanying you.”

Back to him, she spun around at that. “Oh you are?” she spat with a glare. “What for?”

The familiar anger had come into his features, simmering under the surface. He didn't answer right away. When he did, he said, “The pods are very delicate.”

“I promise I'll be careful, Prince Vegeta,” Bulma drawled sarcastically. “There’s three of them anyway, can’t you spare one?”

It seemed the answer to that was yes, because Vegeta just set his teeth in a grimace and turned to face away from her.

“One will be fine,” she said, waving her hand dismissively and walking toward the door once more.

Despite the distance between them, he was beside her in a few moments, the brothers Bardock not far behind. Palpably annoyed, Vegeta grumbled down at her, “Stop putting your back to your opponents, woman.”

“Stop calling me woman, Your Highness,” she snapped back, and Vegeta made a deep huffing noise and shut up. Behind them, she may have heard a stifled chuckle from one of the guards, but neither Bulma nor Vegeta bothered to look back and check.

The walk to sick bay was tense and silent. They passed soldiers and crew members now and again, all of whom stopped to salute with mild terror before going on with ship’s business. Bulma didn’t know how Vegeta reacted to that, because she was determined to keep pace with him without looking directly at him.

Sick bay’s doors opened with a heavy swish, Vegeta punching the door code in himself with perhaps more force than needed. It was still dim—Bulma made a note to check if that was intentional. The Prince didn’t hesitate, storming off to the pod room and disappearing before the main doors were even shut.

Bulma let loose a dramatic sigh and looked back at Kakarot and Raditz for the first time the whole walk. “Does he have a bee in his bonnet or something?” she asked. Kakarot choked back a laugh again, shoving most of his fist in his mouth. Raditz just looked confused. Well, good enough. Bulma hefted her toolbox more firmly onto her shoulder and trudged into the pod room.

The bluish light wasn’t as bright now that the pods were empty, but it was sufficient enough that she could get a much better gander at the machines. Vegeta was leaning against one, foot up on the glass, arms crossed, mouth set in a grim line. It was the same one he’d been in after Arcose, come to think of it. Probably the one in the best condition, if she had to guess.

Bulma pulled out a torch and gestured toward the two that the Prince was not occupying. “So. Which one can I take apart?” she asked.

Vegeta’s jaw fell slack for a second, then he came forward off the pod, fists balled. “Take apart?! Do you have no respect for Saiyan engineering?!”

“Hey! What am I supposed to do, moron?!” she shouted. “I have to get the palladium out!”

The Prince knocked his knuckles against the pod behind him, a loud metallic bang ringing out through the room. “The palladium is in the casings! You don’t need to take the damn thing apart!”

“News flash, Vegeta,” Bulma spat, advancing to the pod as well and smacking the butt of the torch against it, “The casings aren’t just for show. Do you want me to compromise the structural integrity of the pod? I might as well just take a sledgehammer to it at that point!”

“You will do no such thing!” Vegeta growled back. “And don’t hit that!”

“You just did the same thing!”

(Raditz let out a sigh from the door to sick bay. “This was your idea,” he said to his brother.)

“What is your problem?!” Bulma shrieked, pointing the end of her torch at his chest and scrambling for it when Vegeta smacked it out of her hands. “I’m literally doing what you told me to! Do you want the engines fixed or not?!”

“Yes!” he shouted. He’d grasped part of his hair in his fists in frustration. “I want them fixed, dammit! But I don’t want you to touch the pods!”

Bulma bit her lip and forced herself to take a deep breath, briefly resting her forehead in her hands. “I don’t understand you,” she said when she looked back up, somewhat more calm. “And I don’t know what you want me to do.”

As he looked up, the Prince’s eyes were so wide she could see the entirety of his irises—the white-on-brown reminded Bulma of a spooked animal, or something ensnared. None of the bravado and power from Arcose. He didn’t speak. She pursed her lips in thought—if she had to guess, he had some kind of attachment to the pods. She thought back to the last time he’d been in this room—not sleeping, not resting, Tarble had said? And now this paranoia.

Whatever. It wasn’t her job to fix _him_.

“Look,” Bulma said as gently as she could manage, “I’m willing to work with you here to get this done. I’m not going to completely destroy any of these pods, okay? I’m going to take the casing off of one, and make sure I put it back together the same way, or better.” She laid her hand on the pod behind Vegeta. “If you want, I can explain what I’m doing as I go.”

He was still silent, still staring at her, so she reached down and grabbed for her torch. As she brought it up closer to eye level, something snapped around her wrist and froze her in place—his hand, effortlessly curled around her arm like it was a twig. God, she could feel tremors going through his muscles, little quivers from the tension, enveloping heat around her. Careful, careful. Bulma drew in a breath, slowly, and calmly turned her face up toward him.

They stayed like that for a few moments, eyes locked. Gradually, the grip around her arm loosened and sense appeared to come back into his expression.

Vegeta haltingly pried his fingers away from her and drew back, away from the pod entirely. “All right,” he managed.

“All right,” Bulma said back, letting out the breath she’d been holding. “We’re gonna do this slowly.”

* * *

Hours later, Bulma was debating stopping work early to go synthesize a throat lozenge. She'd been talking incessantly about her procedure as she'd done the relatively simple task of inspect the pods and find the joints on the casings. Vegeta refused to stay still, though he was apparently more than content to stay silent. He would walk up close to her to look at what she was doing, then retreat back to a different pod, over and over and over. If she'd stopped talking for more than a few moments, he'd start to look panicky again, and she really didn't want him to lose it on her.

Now, though, Bulma had reached a stage where she was just dismantling, piece by piece, extracting sections of the casing in long thin strips and tossing them into a pile to be melted down later. The rest of the components she'd stored neatly to the side, electronics, wires, screens. She was about a third of the way done after all the prying. Nothing much to explain there. So instead, she was just talking about whatever came to mind.

“You know what I don't understand?” she was saying now, after finishing a one sided rant about strawberries, “The Saiyans are an empire and you're the emperor, right?” Another piece of palladium tossed into the pile. “And you all own Arcose, which is apparently this seedy hotbed of human trafficking...or, well, alien trafficking. And you even told me the empire doesn't condone slavery. So what gives? You own the planet, why not just make the slave trade stop?”

“It's not that simple,” Vegeta replied, making her drop her crowbar. She really wasn't expecting a response.

She fetched the tool and her bearings. “What do you mean it's not simple? You're in charge, make it stop.” She wedged the crowbar underneath another strip of casing.

The Prince rolled his eyes. “Tch. You clearly have no understanding of politics.”

“Get real, homeboy,” Bulma countered. “I run a multi-billion dollar company with my father back home. I know plenty about politics.”

“Well then,” Vegeta said haughtily, crossing his arms and leaning against the pod beside her (ignoring Bulma’s protest), “Explain to me how your Earth politics would solve taking away the major source of income for an entire species.”

She bit her lip. “All right. Fair point. Can you please move over?”

Vegeta chuckled, but did shuffle to the side a bit, allowing Bulma to wedge the crowbar in it. This joint was shut tighter than the rest. “Clearly your solution isn’t working, though. You’re just ignoring the issue. You could at least... _oof_...try to stamp it out.” Bulma threw her whole weight onto the crowbar, but the piece of casing refused to budge. “Dammit.”

As she pried herself off the crowbar, Vegeta leaned over and pressed down with his finger. The casing popped off with a loud bang, clattering to the floor.

“Uh, thanks,” Bulma said sheepishly.

“Your weakness is pitiful,” he grumbled. “Though I suppose all that intellect has to be balanced by something.”

Glaring, she just wedged the crowbar under the next plate and pointed at it. “Then you do it, hot shot.”

She couldn't quite place his expression—something between bored and smug—but this time he only tapped the crowbar and the metal came loose. Same with the next one. And the next. It took hardly any time to get the rest of the casing from the pod removed, leaving all the inner workings exposed.

“I should have just asked you to do that from the beginning,” Bulma remarked, smiling at him. “You just saved me at least an hour of work. Maybe more.”

“Child's play,” Vegeta said with a grin. Smugness had won, it seemed.

Bulma gathered the casings into a neat pile—she'd have to get a cart to transport it back to engineering. The remaining pieces would be a bit more challenging, since she couldn't reassemble the pod until a new casing was installed.

An idea hit her. Maybe she could take a day to synthesize some temporary casings! They had plenty of other scrap metals on board. Then again, she had just disassembled the thing partially...maybe it would be a better idea to keep going and try to figure out what it did. That was a hard prospect to resist...then again, given how the Prince had reacted before, maybe that wasn't prudent... She would really prefer to stay on his good side. Hell, maybe if she played her cards right she could get him to like her.

“You are uncharacteristically quiet, engineer,” Vegeta quipped, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Bulma shook her head to clear it. She was getting distracted by new technology, when really she needed to stay focused. Vegeta? Liking her? Not the plan. The engines were her top priority, the key to her freedom. Focus required melting this palladium down and recasting it. “I need a wheelbarrow,” she muttered, turning around and walking toward the exit.

“A what?” Vegeta questioned from behind her, but she was already gone.


	17. Minds Like Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma finds the prince is full of surprises.

Days later, Bulma had managed to construct a miniature foundry and a mold for the new warp field generator components. It had taken quite a bit of welding and synthesizing, not to mention trying to find a power source to heat metal, but now she was just about done, putting the finishing touches on the whole contraption.

Her music was turned up so loud that afternoon that she didn’t hear the door open once again. No, like a bad case of deja vu, it was only when Vegeta had physically appeared next to her, hands clamped to his ears, that she realized he'd come in. This time, though, his tail shot out to the remote clipped to her jumpsuit and angrily pushed the button before she had time to react.

“Vile noise,” the Prince muttered to himself as he returned to a normal posture.

She rolled her eyes. “You could have just asked, buddy.”

“Tch.”

“What are you doing here again?” Bulma asked, wiping her hands on a rag. “Don't trust me to cast metal by myself? Or do you just want to talk to me some more?”

Vegeta flushed a brilliant red, matching his fur. “That's not it,” he bit out.

“Sure,” Bulma grinned. “Then what, Princey?”

A sour look flashed over Vegeta's face, but he nonetheless turned and barked an order in his native tongue out the doors. In trudged two Saiyans, wearing the simpler armor befitting the normal soldiers and guards. Each had a sizable stack of books, teetering many feet higher than their head, and looked more than a bit nervous.

“Whoa!” Bulma burst out, dashing over. “What are these?”

Vegeta cleared his throat and rose up to his full height. “You were out of technical manuals, so I ordered Nion and Tesulet to collect every one we have and bring them here.”

The two aforementioned Saiyans set their piles down, backs rigid, all of their hair standing on end as Bulma approached. She plucked the first one off a stack—she didn't immediately recognize the Saiyan words on the cover, so that got set down. A second book beneath it didn't have any language she knew, so that was a dud. Underneath was a book in Standard, a tome about propulsion mechanics. She grabbed it, flipped through a bit. “Man, I wish Tarble had brought me these when I got here.”

Vegeta’s smug grin was back. Really, it suited him... “Shame,” he drawled.

But it was the next item that she caught out of the corner of her eye that made her shriek (and the two soldiers flinch). A beat up looking scroll, covered in dust, visible tears along the sides, huge metallic rollers, with a familiar geometric text emblazoned over the top. It couldn't be… She scrambled for it, grunting slightly at the weight of the metal, and set it on the ground, trying to reign in her hopes.

The three Saiyans approached her, each confused as they leaned in. She yanked the rollers open and blew a thick coat of dust away. “Oh my God,” she gasped, confirming her suspicions. “It's Namekian.”

Vegeta straightened. “Leave,” he barked to the soldiers, who obliged with haste.

Bulma barely noticed, she was too busy rolling the whole scroll out along the floor, scanning through the text, the diagrams, heart leaping into her throat when she revealed a perfect facsimile of the Namekian ship they'd reverse-engineered. She gawked at it in disbelief for longer than she should have before gently rolling it back up. “How did you find this?”

“I didn't,” the Prince admitted. “I ordered them to bring everything in that part of our library.”

“You have a library?!” Bulma gasped as she whipped to look at him.

At that Vegeta snorted. “This is a royal castle, of course we do. What does it matter?”

Bulma held up the scroll. “This is about Namekian technology, genius! From before their whole planet fell apart!” He didn't look impressed, so she shook it for emphasis. “They had faster than light travel, Vegeta! And now they've lost it, and this is talking about its development.” She was yelling now. “Do you know what we could learn from this?!”

“What?” Vegeta barked, striding over and plucking the scroll from her hands. He unrolled it partially, brow furrowing as he examined it. “I don't know this script.”

“It's written in Namekian,” Bulma said, nodding “It’s all Greek to you.”

Vegeta’s face scrunched in confusion. “What is Greek?”

“Oh, uh...a language from my planet.”

“Engineer,” he growled, “You just said it was in Namekian.”

“Oh my God.” Bulma threw her hands skyward. “It doesn't matter, you don't understand it.”

“And you do, presumably?” Vegeta said, annoyed.

“Of course I do.” She shot a winning smile at him, one that had charmed many a business opponent. “I spent the last two years on Namek solving all their problems. And now,” she said, taking the scroll back and tucking it under her arm, “I’m gonna use this to solve yours.”

Vegeta was quiet now, an unreadable expression on his face. He eventually said, “I am glad they will be helpful to you,” and started to head toward the door.

A pang went through her at the look on his face. She wasn't entirely sure what it was about. Guilt? “Hey, Vegeta,” she said before he could leave. He stopped, looking back at her, expression unchanged. “Thank you for doing this. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“You keep thanking me for useless things,” Vegeta said with a shake of his head. “First Arcose, now the books. You are rather easy to please.”

Bulma laughed. “I think that might be the first time anyone's said that about me. I guess you don't know me that well.”

Vegeta smirked in spite of himself. “I suppose it means you're Greek to me then?”

The laughs came more easily this time. “Was that a joke?” Bulma gasped out. “Are you making jokes now?”

The Prince looked rather proud of himself as he tried to maintain a straight face. “Is that not the proper usage of the expression? Your idioms are quite difficult. Greek, even.”

“Oh God stop,” Bulma wheezed, holding her ribs and leaning on her foundry, sliding down to the floor along it's smooth metal surface, and that was what set Vegeta off into his own guffaws, the mirth lighting his face up beautifully, hard lines and intense gaze washed away with a flood of amusement.

As they both caught their breath back, Bulma smiled up to him, their eyes catching for a moment. You know, there was a certain charm to him, behind all the animalistic features. Perhaps, if she squinted, she could almost see the Saiyan face that lay behind. He must have been a very handsome prince before whatever had happened to make him so beastly.

Handsome? Bulma tore her eyes from Vegeta’s gaze with a shock and cleared her throat—the Prince rapidly did the same, a wave of tension floating between them. “I should get back to work,” Bulma bit out, shoving a piece of palladium into the foundry’s funnel.

“Yes, indeed,” Vegeta agreed hurriedly. He turned toward the door, but paused a moment. “I shall be back tomorrow. It appears you have many more manuals that need translation.”

And on a typical day, that proclamation would have been met with scorn. But Bulma just couldn't muster up any complaints. No, instead she just smiled warmly at him and said, “See you in the morning.”

Vegeta nodded, his face blank, but as he headed out the door his tail was waving back and forth in obvious pleasure...at least until Bulma turned her music back on.

* * *

“...and then it turns out the big red ogre is actually a shapeshifting pig,” Bulma was saying as she installed the warp field generator a few days later, pounding it into place with a mallet. “I rescued the girls, sent them back home, and blackmailed the pig into coming with me!”

Vegeta snorted from across the room, turning the page of the manual he was working on. “Hilarious. What then?”

“Ugh. Then _Yamcha_ happens.”

“What is Yamcha?”

“That’s a question, isn’t it?” She paused for a minute, examining the piece. It might need to move a few millimeters to the left… “Yamcha is my ex-boyfriend.”

Vegeta shot her a sidelong glance. “I don’t know what that means, Engineer.”

“It means we used to be lovers, and aren’t now.” Definitely needed to move a few millimeters to the left. She grabbed a crowbar and began maneuvering the piece into place.

“Ah,” The Prince said with an air of understanding. “So he’s dead.”

“What? No.” Bulma frowned at him, pausing her ministrations. “No, he’s on Namek. And a huge pain in my ass, most of the time...although not so much now, I guess.”

He was staring at her like she’d grown another head. “Saiyan matings and marriages only end when one partner is deceased.”

“Do you guys not...like…” Bulma twirled her hand around in a vague gesture. “...Date?” He still had a blank expression. “Like, temporary couplings. Casual fucking. That stuff.”

To her utmost surprise, the Prince reared back as though her words had smacked him in the face. “The lower class soldiers may partake in such things,” he scoffed. “Certainly not the elite.”

“God, does your culture have any fun at all? Psh.” There, now the piece was seated properly. She tossed the mallet and crowbar to the floor with a clatter, reaching instead for the control panel to launch into diagnostics.

For a few moments there was just pages rustling and the soft beeps of the computer. Something was nagging Bulma in the back of her head, a thought she couldn’t stamp down. Luckily for her, Vegeta decided to chime in so she didn’t have to mull it over anymore.

“On our homeworld,” he was saying, surprisingly quiet, “Any coupling that merits a label is permanent and irrevocable, even after death.”

She thought for a moment about Raditz. “What happens when you lose a mate, or spouse?”

Vegeta frowned deeply, looking her in the eyes for a moment. “The first mate is usually the last mate,” he said simply.

She hummed. “That sounds sort of nice, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow at her in reply.

“No, I mean…” Bulma set her tools down for a moment. “It just...it seems nice to have a relationship that matters so much to you that you’d want to make it forever and always.” She sighed a bit, leaned against the cool metal of the generator. “I don’t think I know anyone I’d want to make permanent like that.”

The Prince closed the manual he was working on, full attention on her. “Why not?”

She shook her head. “My friends on Namek...I don’t know. I like to read. I like to work with my hands.” Bulma stretched her fingers out, looking at the calloused pads under her fingers. “I tinker. I take things apart. I learn.” Her hand curled around her mallet before she gently tossed it into the air a few times. “Except for my family, no one seems to appreciate that.”

“You have other family than your father?” Vegeta’s voice said from close by.

Bulma glanced at him. He was standing nearer to her now, just out of reach. Arms crossed, tail wound about his waist, but he was looking at her with interest. Something in her stomach flipped, but she resumed hammering. “Yeah, there’s four of us. Dad, mom, sister, and me. I love them, but…they’re not always enough.” A few taps from rubber on metal. “It gets isolating. Being different from everyone.”

Vegeta didn’t say anything to that, just continued to stare in her direction.

She laughed, trying to alleviate the intensity of his gaze. “Look at me rambling. You probably don’t care about my life.”

“You presume a lot, Earthling,” Vegeta mumbled with none of his usual gruffness. There was a warmth to his tone, even. “Although you do talk about the most inane things. Strawberries and the like.”

Bulma laughed, sincerely this time. “Would you rather I talk about quantum mechanics? Those are the two options, bud.”

“Quantum mechanics,” he fired back. “It suits you more.”

She blinked, then set her mallet down, turning to face him fully, and Vegeta met her gaze without hesitation. Bulma opened her mouth, but decided against thanking him. Her teeth clicked as she snapped them shut.

“Is your tongue bitten out?” Vegeta quipped with a slight smile.

“...What?”

“You don’t have that expression on Earth, engineer?” He chuckled. “Twice now I have rendered you speechless.”

Bulma shook her head. “This coming from a man whose culture doesn’t have wheelbarrows. Or _wheels_.” She pointed around at their surroundings, at the ship. “No, you idiots jump straight to space travel with nothing in between.”

“What need for wheels when even your infants can fly?” He rose up in the air a few centimeters to prove his point. The slight smile was rapidly approaching smug grin. Gosh, his eyes were so expressive when they weren’t scowling… “We were a space-faring race long before yours had anything resembling propulsion.”

“Oh really?” She tapped her foot against the warp core’s metal sheath. “If this is the best you can do, maybe you need some wheels after all.”

He narrowed his eyes and his smile. “Unfortunate that you missed the Saiyan empire in its prime.” Vegeta mimicked her, tapping his floating foot against the core. “We used to have thousands of ships like this. The castle is an heirloom from a magnificent era.”

“Yeah? Well what happened to all of them?”

His grin faltered, replaced quickly by a true glare. “Frieza.”

Bulma cringed and reached for her mallet. “Oh.”

Vegeta sank back to the ground, his feet landing with a soft scuff, arms back to being crossed tightly. She thought he wouldn’t continue, especially once she started hammering the field generator back together. In a low voice, though, he said, “The Saiyans no longer explore space. There are too few of us left alive to leave homeworld. This vessel is the only one that still functions. We are alone.”

“You couldn’t fix the rest?”

“There was nothing to fix.” He hung his head, eyes unfocused. “Our technology paled in comparison to the Cold empire's. If the Saiyans had a mind like yours decades ago, maybe we would never have been conquered.” She didn’t have time to process that before he finished, “It doesn’t matter now.”

Bulma hesitated a moment, but then placed her hand gently on his elbow, soft crimson fur under her fingers. His head shot straight up, eyes wide as he stared at her, body completely still, but he didn’t back away. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to dig this up.”

“Do not pity me, human,” he growled. “It’s a useless sentiment.”

“I don’t pity you,” she snapped, fingers digging into his skin with annoyance. In response, the Prince reached out with his hand to wrap around her wrist, presumably to pull her off. Bulma clapped her other hand on top of both to stop him. “Why don’t you drop the arrogant tough guy act for a minute. I’m trying to talk to you.”

His eyes flashed to where they made contact again, then up to her face. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the door to engineering opened with a faint hiss, startling both Vegeta and Bulma out of their conversation. They sprang apart guiltily, disentangling their limbs with great speed.

“Oh,” said the intruder. It was Tarble, who had stopped still in the doorway. “Sire. I didn’t realize you would be down here.”

 _That_ was eyebrow raising. Bulma’s questioning look to the Prince was essentially ignored as the latter beelined toward his brother. “What’s wrong?” he barked.

“Nothing, my liege.” Tarble waved in her general direction. “I was coming to speak to Lady Bulma.” His eyes darted about, taking the room in—the nearly-installed generator, the piles of books, one open with writing implements nearby—and pursed his lips. “May I ask what you’re doing down here?”

“He’s translating for me,” Bulma said, preempting Vegeta’s reply.

“I see.”

The Prince moved toward the door as hastily as he could without flying. “I’m going to the pods.” Before Tarble or Bulma could get a word in edgewise, he was gone.

Tarble blinked a few times, before rounding on his chief engineer with a questioning look, one that reminded her of her mother before she was about to launch into juicy gossip.

“Don’t look at me,” Bulma said, putting her hands up. “I don’t know what that was about.”

“All right. No matter.” Tarble locked his arms behind his back, standing as straight as he could muster. “Lady Bulma, I have come to apologize to you.”

She frowned. “For what?”

“For my treatment of you when we last made planetfall.” He hung his head—it seemed some things ran in the family. “I lost my temper with you, and I am ashamed of my behavior.”

She remembered back a few weeks, to the aftermath. “I thought Saiyans don’t apologize.”

Tarble wrinkled his nose, tail swaying. “The Prince has many views about what Saiyans do. Some of them are...behind the times. Or perhaps,” he said wistfully, “I am just not Saiyan enough to implement their backwards honor system.”

“I think you're plenty Saiyan,” Bulma said. “And I forgive you. If anything I should apologise to you. It's not like I'm easy to handle anyway!”

Tarble laughed. “Quite true.”

Bulma beamed at him. She hadn't seen Tarble since Vegeta had come out of his extended pod stay, and it really was rather nice to talk to him again.

“Well, if that’s settled.” Tarble clapped his hands together, unable to contain an excited grin. “I have a lot of questions for you. It seems I've missed quite a lot of...activity in the engineering room.” He rubbed his palms together, that grin looking more and more sinister with every passing moment.

“Oh boy,” Bulma said with a grimace. “I'd better sit down for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! I've been on a work retreat, so I've had lots of free time to write. Been trying to get ahead. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I had lots of fun writing the Bulma/Vegeta dialogue.


	18. Twenty Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty days, twenty times Bulma bugged Vegeta with curious questions.

“Tell me, Engineer...what exactly is a strawberry?”

“The best thing in the universe.”

“I would have expected a better answer from someone who claims to have such great intellect.”

“...It’s a fruit. It’s red, with lots of small seeds on the outside. They’re sweet, with a little tartness. They get sweeter the more you let them sit on the vine. They’re my favorite food.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“My parents would take me berry picking when I was a little girl, and I'd just go crazy in the strawberry fields. They had these ones that were the size of my hands that were somehow so sweet, they were marvelous.”

“You talk about the damned things so much, I have to wonder if they are truly so _marvelous_.”

“Well what's your favorite food, then?”

“Tch. A Saiyan warrior does not have time to play favorites.”

“If you try a strawberry, you'll definitely change your mind.”

* * *

“Okay, you know what’s been bugging me?”

“Insects, presumably. You should eradicate them.”

“Don’t have that idiom either, huh? It means something is bothering me.”

“Sensible.”

“What does Nappa even _do_ on the ship?”

“He is third in command under Tarble.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. Tarble seems to do all the stuff I’ve seen.”

“Nappa manages the soldiers when in battle and oversees training.”

“He doesn’t like me very much.”

Vegeta frowns.

“Are you surprised by this?”

“Most of the crew appears to be... _enamoured_ with you.”

“Apparently not everyone, sourpuss.”

“I have heard the opposite, Engineer. He seems to find you acceptable.”

“Yeah? Doesn't show it much.”

“You are not a warrior. You do not build us weapons, despite my commands—”

“Hah!”

“—so he sees no use for you. Though...”

She cocks an eyebrow.

He falters and seemingly changes the subject. “Nappa is of high rank. He concerned for the longevity of the royal family.”

“I don't follow.”

The sour look returns. “He wishes us to return to homeworld. I do not. We are at odds.” 

“Gotcha.”

More quiet. 

“What does that have to do with me?” 

“I suggest you go back to fixing engines, human.”

“Sheesh. Fine.”

* * *

She dropped the book on his table. “What language is this?”

“Tuffle.”

“Can you read it?”

“It is not my strongest tongue. But I have some proficiency.”

“What about this one?”

“I believe that is Shamoian. I do not speak it.”

“How many languages do you know?”

“I am fluent in five. Passable in more. You seem to know many, Engineer.”

“Mostly Earth languages. I’m fluent in English, Japanese, Namekian, and Standard. I know some other languages from home decently well, and I’d wager I’m getting okay at Saiyan.”

“You speak it through your nose. Your accent is provincial.”

“ _Thanks_.”

He frowns. “...You are not terrible at it.” 

“...Thanks.”

They blush and are silent, collecting themselves.

She speaks. “What do you think your strongest tongue is?”

“Presumably the one in my mouth.”

“Oh, lord.” 

* * *

“Vegeta?”

“What is it now, Engineer?”

“What, not enjoying our conversations?”

“If you expect me to translate anything, you should reconsider all the talking.”

“Ha, good luck. Anyway, I have a question.”

“Obviously.”

“Why do you look so different from the other Saiyans?”

“Immense power.”

“So you weren't born like this?”

“No.”

“And it's not some sort of royal-family morphology? Like King Zora or something?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I earned this form slaying countless enemies and training. Something you wouldn't understand, I imagine.”

“Fuck you, Your Highness. I know what hard work is.” 

“This transformation is the ancient legend of the Super Saiyan reborn. It was not merely _hard work_.”

Clang.

“Did you honestly expect that to hit me?”

“No, but I was hoping I was wrong.”

Bruised silence.

“What legend?”

He tells her the ancient story, one that had motivated him for decades, one that had provisioned him under Frieza’s despotic rule.

“Wow. And you did that? That's amazing!”

He looked away.

“Don’t get humble on me now, Princey. You know, I think you'd look pretty good blonde.”

He sputters when she winks.

* * *

“Question.”

He sighs and closes his manual with more force than needed.

“When you were a kid, did you ever think about when you were gonna be king?”

“What sort of idiotic question is that? Of course! I was the Prince!” 

“Right, okay, so. How many times did you think to yourself something like...Oh man, when I’m king, I’m gonna do so much stuff differently.”

“You do not make sense.”

“Oh, come on, Vegeta! Like, Lion King style. _I am the Saiyan Prince and when I am grown, no one will tell me what to do, I’m gonna fire everybody and Thursdays will be Vegeta day_.”

“I do _not_ sound like that. And stop that...that...whatever you’re doing with your arms.”

“Did you though? Think that sort of thing?”

“Hmph.”

“Well, fine, huff and puff and don’t tell me.”

She turns back to her work. 

He surprises her. 

“I remember thinking that I would make it a crime to have moustaches.” 

“Say that again?”

“Moustaches. Nappa has the most...revolting moustache. He was the only one with just a moustache. When I was a child he would order me around and always with that moustache. Hideous.”

She breaks down into giggles as he speaks.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Stop saying moustache! You keep saying it wrong!”

“Wrong? How could I possibly be wrong, Engineer?”

“It’s muh-stash, not moo-stahsh.” 

“I don’t hear the difference.”

“Moo-staaaaaahsh. Muuuuuh-stash.”

“You sound ridiculous.” 

“I’m not the one who wanted to make moo-staaaaaaaahshes a crime. _Look at me, I’m Vegeta, when I’m emperor someday I’m gonna install capital punishment for facial hair!_ ”

“I _am_ the emperor, woman!”

She was laughing too hard to correct him.

* * *

“Do you know what the healing pods are filled with?”

“Liquid.” 

“Thanks, genius. I figured that one out myself.”

He chuckles.

“So you don’t know?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, spit it out.”

“Synthetic Saiyan genetic material. Compounds from the native plants of our homeworld. Water.”

“Interesting. What kind of compounds?”

Vegeta shrugs. They are silent for a moment.

“What does it feel like? Being in the pods.”

He hesitates. “Euphoric. Healing in Saiyans breeds strength. The closer to death you dive, the higher you sail upon recovery. It is intoxicating.”

“Maybe I should try it sometime. Sounds nice.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You would need to be wounded for that. I will do everything in my power to keep that from happening.”

“...oh.”

He appears relieved.

“Well, maybe I can just fix them instead.”

* * *

“Engineer.”

“Yes?”

“You look like you have something to ask.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You have been looking at me.”

“Have I? Well...I do have a question.”

“And?”

“What's your earliest memory?”

“What could possibly have spurred you to ask this?”

“Well, I was thinking about my first memories, so I was wondering about yours.”

“Hmph. You first.”

“The earliest thing I remember is my parents taking us to the beach. We went swimming and my dad got really sunburned. I think he bought us ice cream after. I was...four?”

“You have a good memory.”

“Thanks.”

“Does your species swim regularly?”

“Depends on the culture and where you live. I grew up near enough to the ocean where we could take a weekend trip. Some places are more landlocked.”

“There are no oceans on our planet. All of our water is locked under the crust.” 

“Can you swim?” 

“Yes.” 

“So you've never gone swimming for fun?”

“No.” 

Bulma nods. “So what's your earliest memory, then? I told you mine.”

He ponders. “Flying across the capital city. I was fleeing some ludicrous royal event. Nappa caught me and dragged me back. I believe I bit him.”

Bulma snorted. “You bit him?”

“He mentions it now and again. He has never forgiven me.” 

“That's hilarious.”

“Nappa would disagree.”

* * *

“Do the inhabitants of your planet fight?”

“Some do. We brought the strongest fighters with us to Namek.”

“You left your homeworld undefended?”

“I mean, honestly, the trouble seems to follow _us_ , not Earth. And even if there’s no fighters there, our people are pretty resilient.”

“Hm.”

“There must be some Saiyans that don't fight. I know Tarble doesn't.”

“Tarble is only weak. He and all other Saiyans retain their fighting instincts. It is in our blood.”

“What is?”

“Violence. Bloodthirst. Rage.”

“Ah. Well, Tarble doesn't seem that bloodthirsty to me.”

“My brother has an unusual temperament. Perhaps if you could have witnessed us as children you would have seen glimpses.”

“What about Kakarot? He doesn't seem vicious.”

“Hitting your head as an infant can change things. Am I right, Earth genius?”

She grumbles.

“Kakarot is strong and competitive. The instinct is there. He fights.”

“What happens to Saiyans that don't fight?”

“If their king is merciful, they become second in command on the flagship of the empire. Otherwise, they are sent on long missions never to return.”

“Oh.”

“Tarble was banished by our father before the Cold Empire committed genocide of our people.”

“Your father sounds like a real asshole.”

He glares. “He was a great king, who had to make difficult decisions for his empire.”

“He can be both great and an asshole. I would never abandon my family like that.”

“No, you seem to only abandon your family to protect them. Just like my father.”

They sit in angry silence.

* * *

“Engineer. Perhaps you can solve a mystery.”

“I'll give it a shot.”

“Your father, when he was aboard. He was in the possession of a garment that smelled absolutely vile. What is the cause of this?”

Bulma laughs. “Not washing it, mostly.”

“What could possibly have been on it?”

“Well for starters, my dad smokes like a chimney when he thinks we aren't looking.”

“He lights himself on fire?”

“Only from the inside. You don't have smokable drugs? Recreational ones?”

“They exist within the empire, but they are not commonly used.”

“We have a few commonly used ones on my planet. Tobacco is what my dad likes. Alcohol is popular.”

“Saiyans typically do not drink alcohol except at festivals. It dulls the senses. Bad for fighting.”

“That makes sense. It's bad for most other things too.” 

“Yes.”

“What kinds of festivals do you have?”

“Our largest celebration is the Full Moon Festival.” 

“Sounds fun.”

“I doubt you'd think that if you were there. My entire species turns into giant apes for the night.” 

“Are you serious?!”

“Completely. Saiyans with tails can transform under full moons.”

“Huh. Is that why you sent your infants out to conquer planets?” 

“Quite astute.” 

“I'm glad you stopped doing that. It's barbaric.”

“Hn.”

“So besides the giant apes, what's the the festival like?”

“On our homeworld the moon is only full every eight years. The impending moon changes us, attunes our bodies to more primal urges. We spend eight days beforehand engaged in drinking, feasting, fucking before the great transformation. It is said that matings founded during the festival, and children conceived, are moon-blessed and extraordinarily powerful.” 

“Do you know anyone who is moon-blessed?’

“My mother was.”

“Wow. When is the next one?”

“Two months from now. Our current destination is homeworld. Unfortunately, I must be present for it.”

“Oh, cool.”

“On the contrary, I think it will be quite heated.”

* * *

“...so then for a while he was talking about joining a baseball team, which I was totally against, because he could commit to playing baseball for years but he couldn't commit to me despite us dating on and off for almost a decade at that point, and then the bastard ended up going off to play for that stupid team anyway, so I dumped him again—”

“Engineer. What is baseball?”

“Oh, it's an Earth sport.”

“How is it played?”

“One person throws a ball toward someone with a big stick, and then the other person tries to hit the ball while running in a circle.”

“That sounds asinine.”

“Uh, excuse me? It's a national pastime.”

“You were just complaining about it.”

“No, I was complaining about Yamcha. Huge difference.”

“You are impossible.”

“Damn straight. So, what about you? Do Saiyans have any sports?”

“Do you consider fighting a sport?” 

“Sort of? Earth has martial arts tournaments where fighters compete.”

“Saiyans fight for many reasons. Fun is one of them. The royal family organized tournaments periodically to promote soldiers to higher ranks.”

“Organized? Past tense? Are there no more?”

“...we have not been to homeworld recently. If there are tournaments, they are organized by other parties.”

“Ah.”

“We do not have other native sports. Some alien ones are popular with Saiyans.”

“Maybe I'll teach your crew how to play baseball and see if you like it. I bet my team would beat your team.”

Vegeta laughs. “I do not know this game, but that is a preposterous suggestion. We would destroy you in any competition.”

Bulma grins. “That's the spirit!”

* * *

“Vegeta?”

“You are incessant.”

“What is your homeworld like?”

“Dry.”

“Wow, that was so descriptive, I can really picture it.”

“It is a desert planet. The ground is red, the sky matches it. There are two suns, multiple moons. The gravity is intense.”

“Intense?”

“The artificial gravity on the ship is only one-tenth of what is on our homeworld.”

“And we’re going there?”

“Yes.”

“I guess I’d better develop some way to combat that.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“And that’s where your parents were born, the homeworld?”

“No.” 

“Really?”

“My father conquered our current homeworld and moved our entire race there. Our previous planet was destroyed by war.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“Do you miss it?”

“Saiyans don’t miss things.”

“Saiyans don’t this, Saiyans don’t that. You sound like a broken record, bucko.”

“And Earthlings don’t shut up.”

“Guilty as charged, homeboy.”

* * *

“Hey, Vegeta?”

“What?”

“How old are you?”

“In Saiyan years, I am 57.” 

“Oh. How long is a Saiyan year?” 

“173 Standard days.”

She does math in her head. “So in Earth years you'd be 31. And in Saiyan years, I’m 55.”

Vegeta shrugs.

“I’m 30 in Earth years, so we’re about the same age.”

“Is that old for your species?”

“That's a loaded question, buddy.”

“Tch. Fine then. What is a typical life like?”

“Well, modern humans regularly live to be 80 Earth years. Our infants are born helpless until about age 5. We go through puberty between 10 and 17 years and complete maturation in our early 20s. Then we slowly grow old.”

“Hn.”

“Is that strange to you?”

“Saiyans grow slowly between spurts. Our maturation does not begin until yours ends. We stay in fighting prime our entire lives, but live to be the same age.”

“Huh. Are you fully grown?”

“Yes.”

“And so are you old for your species?”

“I believe that is a loaded question, Engineer.”

* * *

“What I don't understand is why you haven't replaced your engineers already.”

She is rerouting wires under a control panel. 

“A ship this size, you must need at least five, if not ten of them.”

“All of the Saiyan engineers are dead.”

“All of them? How?!”

“Frieza killed most of them when he took over the fleet. Replaced them with his own.”

“You had some before, right? Wasn’t there an accident or something? Kakarot mentioned it to me.”

He is silent. 

She looks out from underneath the panel. “Vegeta?”

“We were attacked. Eight years ago.”

She slides herself up to standing, listens intently.

“We landed on Konats. War-torn planet, recovering from a legendary monster’s attack. Some of the inhabitants were remnants of Frieza’s armies, supporters. When we took off, they fired on us. Boarded. Targeted the warp engine.”

“Oh no.”

“I went to engineering. Killed the invaders. One of my shots...I underestimated. Went through the forcefield surrounding the core. It breached.”

She put her hand over her mouth.

“The engineers were incinerated. Much of the ship was damaged. We forced the Konatsians to repair what they could. Attempted to run the ship without engineers.”

“Shit, Vegeta. I’m sorry.”

Vegeta does not answer her. Instead he turns and walks out of engineering for three hours. When he comes back he does not look at her.

* * *

“Engineer.”

“Yes?”

“Is your species born without tails, or do you remove your tails during growth?”

“Born without. We have tails in the womb, but they get reabsorbed except in very rare cases.”

“Interesting.”

“I assume you’re born with?”

“Yes.”

“Do they grow back if they’re cut off?”

“Up to a point.”

“Have you ever had your tail cut off?”

“Once, as a child.”

“What happened?”

“I offended the then-emperor Lord Frieza by refusing to bow to his will. He had my tail removed as punishment. I did not make that mistake again.”

“...Ah. Well...at least it grew back?”

“Yes. This is that tail.” He waves it through the air. 

“It, uh, it looks nice.”

“...Thank you.”

* * *

“How many planets have you been to?”

“Too many to count. Hundreds.”

“Which was your favorite?”

“Homeworld.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Okay fine. Except for your homeworld...what’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever been?”

“Saiyans do not value beauty.”

“Yeah, bullshit. You keep me around.”

“T-That’s not—”

“Answer the question, Princey.”

“There was...a comet the ship passed years ago. It was blue, bright, cold. We moved in close, close enough for the ice to chip our hull. The ship was so...small in comparison.”

“...Wow.”

He is silent for the rest of the day.

* * *

“So are there any other differences between marriage and mating for Saiyans?”

“Effectively not, aside from formality. Marriages on our homeworld are grand and stuffy. Matings are utilitarian and informal.”

“Do Saiyans have political marriages?”

“No.”

“No?”

“All our pairings come from trust. Politics do not breed trust. Parents may attempt an arrangement, but if it does not dispel suspicion, it will not succeed.”

“That's fair.”

A moment of quiet.

“Have you ever been married, Vegeta?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shoots her a look. 

“Trust issues?”

“Tch.”

“Yeah, I should’ve known.”

* * *

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“This is a weird question.”

“They all are. What is it?”

“Do...do Saiyans mate with non-Saiyans frequently?”

He says nothing.

“I said it was weird.”

“Why are you asking this?”

“Uh...curiosity?”

“Tch.” 

“Is this a touchy subject?”

“It is not _touchy_. It is...not discussed. And expressly forbidden.” 

“Why?”

“Saiyan hybrids are volatile creatures, with hugely powerful abilities. Crossing the bloodline with non Saiyans is dishonorable and could topple the empire.”

She thinks about Garban. “Wouldn’t you want to have that, then? To use that hybrid vigor to your advantage? Especially since your species is so knocked down.”

“Nappa has suggested the idea. Once.”

“Once?”

“He would not be foolish enough to do it again.”

She didn’t press that. “There must have been some Saiyan hybrids in your history.”

“Of course there were. Where do you think the rules came from, Engineer? Our strongest, most elite warriors have been toppled by the hybrid bastards of the weakest soldiers. It causes chaos.”

She ponders. “Well, why not just have one in the royal family to deal with that?”

He bared his teeth. “Hybrids are strong but lack the desire to fight. They can gain strength but do not maintain power. A hybrid empire would crumble under a weak leader.”

“Huh. So... there's never been a royal dalliance between a Saiyan and a non-Saiyan?”

He is incriminatingly silent.

“That's what I thought.”

“Be quiet, you harpy.”

* * *

“You haven’t done anything in an hour, Engineer.”

“I’m waiting for an analysis to finish.”

“You’re lying down and staring at the ceiling.”

“I’m thinking.”

“And I am on edge. About?”

“What are Saiyan women like?”

He closes his book and floats toward her. “You have already met Kakarot’s mate, is that insufficient?”

She looks up at him, arms crossed behind her head, and tries to keep a straight face. “A small sample size doesn’t make for good science.”

“They are...strong. In body and in personality. Fierce. Vicious.”

“All of them, or just the good ones?”

“Both. Few Saiyans are soft, male or female.”

“What do they look like?”

“...They look like Saiyans, but female.”

“You are a regular wordsmith, Prince Vegeta.”

He frowns.

“Are they beautiful, on your planet?”

“Saiyans don't—”

“—value beauty yeah yeah whatever. Answer my question.”

“...What constitutes beautiful for you?”

“We've established that I'm beautiful.”

He groans.

“Are there any Saiyan women like me?”

“Engineer, I can assure you that there is no one on the Saiyan homeworld that is like you, in aesthetics or otherwise.”

“...is that good?”

He doesn't answer.

* * *

“Why do you listen to such atrocious music?”

“Why are you such an asshole all the time?”

He growls, but she is not phased. 

“This is what’s popular on Earth. Well, it was when I left, at least.” 

“Popular does not mean of quality. Frieza was popular, at least officially.” 

“Well, I like it, and it’s my engine room.”

“It is _my_ engine room, woman, and I do not like it.”

She shoots him the _woman_ look. 

“Our music is better.”

“You could make your case a lot better if you tell me what it’s like. You still owe me a history lesson, you know.”

“Saiyan music is for telling glorious tales. Celebrated war heroes, conquerors.” He waves his hand, trying to find words. “Passions of mind, heart, and energy. Horns, voices, drums. There is a heat to it, a rhythm.”

“Love stories?”

“...In a manner of speaking.”

“Ah, so you Saiyans do have a soft side.”

“We sing about couples of war. The great mated fighters. The glory of their demise. The tragedy of their separation.”

“Example?”

He pauses. “Eschalot and Rugul, a mated pair who fought together in a great and ancient war. The most grand of our operas is written for them. Apart, they each fought for their own tribes. Together, they were unstoppable. Eschalot became a conqueress of countless armies with Rugul at her side.”

Enrapt, “...Then what?” 

“Rugul was betrayed by his trusted comrade Eruca. The Saiyans in their legion turned on them to grasp power. Rugul was slain, dishonorably poisoned. Eschalot, in her furious grief, destroyed the entire legion, then lay beside her lover’s body until the last breath left her.”

“Oh...wow.”

“It is more glorious when you hear the opera, I assure you. Perhaps I will play it for you someday.”

“...I think that I’d like that.”

* * *

“Engineer.”

She was welding.

“Engineer?”

Over the hissing, “Can’t hear you! One minute.” 

He paused a moment, tapped his foot the requisite time.

She did not stop.

“Bulma!” 

She fumbled her torch, shutting it off and pulling her mask up. “W-What?” 

He hesitated. “I wish to ask you a question.”

Wide eyes. “Okay.”

Clearing of the throat. “Would you...do you wish to join me for dinner? Tonight?”

She blinked. 

He squirmed. 

Then, a bright smile. “Yes. I think that sounds nice.” 

He breathed again. “Good.”

She clamped her mask over her face. “Pick me up at the end of my shift.”

The Prince strode out with a grin.

Bulma’s grin matched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! This is a bit of a departure from the normal style that I wanted to play with -- we'll return back to usual with next chapter!


	19. Dinner Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

The end of her official shift was coming much more slowly than she would have hoped. Bulma tapped her foot wildly against the floor as she waited in engineering. The clock read fifteen minutes until the shift change, and to be honest she hadn't gotten anything done for the last thirty minutes before that anyway. No, she'd spent perhaps too much time inspecting her appearance in the newly-upgraded holographic screen. The jumpsuit she synthesized each morning was functional but perhaps not the most flattering attire. And she'd taken to tying her hair back in a bandanna, which was great when working underneath machinery and terrible for keeping her hair looking sleek. She'd pondered going back to her quarters to freshen up, but decided that would be too much effort. No, instead she'd lost nearly an hour of her day fretting about what to do, and thinking about what he’d said.

He’d called her Bulma. Not woman, not engineer. Her name. She’d been on the ship almost three months and that was the first time the word had passed his lips. Bulma had been so startled at the time that she didn’t say anything, but now...

The chime to engineering rang out, an unusual warning from the Prince. Bulma quickly yanked out her bandanna and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it in the few seconds she had between yelling “Come in!” and the door sliding open.

Vegeta strode in with purpose, wearing armor she’d not seen before. The metal gleamed in silvers and reds, striking against white gloves and boots. He’d added a blue amulet about his neck and an actual full chest plate, hiding his usual red fur on his torso and arms. (Bulma tried not to think about how jarring that was.) Even his cape was different, deep red with gold trim instead of the usual shimmering blue.

He approached her. “Hello, Engineer.”

“Hello,” Bulma replied.

Though his face was as stoic as usual, something almost awkward flickered across his it. “Are you prepared for dinner?”

She looked at his grand get-up, then down at her own disheveled form. “Do you want me to change?”

“Change what?”

“Clothes.”

His eyes furrowed. “What do your clothes have to do with eating?”

She bit her lip for a second. “You look so...regal, and I look like I’ve been swimming in a vat of engine grease.”

Vegeta’s face lit up with a familiar smirk. “Haven’t you, though?”

“Not quite swimming, but—”

“Then I do not see the problem.” He extended a hand toward her. “I asked you to accompany me regardless of your attire.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that, and gingerly placed her hand in his, the glove a cool barrier against the heat of his skin.

Vegeta, floating just slightly above the ground, escorted Bulma out of engineering, past the grand staircase, and down a familiar hallway. They entered the ballroom-slash-throne room together through the cavernous door, the Prince pushing his way past the metal knockers like they were nothing, and it was made up as before, when they had attempted their last dinner. Vegeta broke off from her, stepping aside and indicating the nook off in the corner. This time, she approached it.

“I believe the last time I was here,” Bulma started, “You threatened me, destroyed my days work, and then banned me from eating.”

“And you,” Vegeta replied with a sly grin as he fell in line beside her, “Shrieked at me, refused to be cowed, and insulted my sanity. How have you been eating, anyway?”

“Cautiously.”

He chuckled, a deep sound that she liked more and more as she heard it, and strode on past her.

Obscured from the main area, and revealed as they approached, was a long wooden table, wide, made of the same obsidian timber as the throne and the grand stairs. Carved into it were intricate symbols, including an insignia that she'd seen around the ship—the royal crest, as far as she could tell, like an anchor with a trident. It was set with odd looking objects that she would wager were the Saiyan replacements for plates—large, elaborate slabs of some porcelain like material with deep grooves, dyed a ruby red color. One, at the head of the table, was dyed gold—she assumed that was Vegeta’s. Beside those were large metal knives with matching red and gold handles, their tips with what looked like a lobster fork attached, and two large objects that looked like bear claws made of pale wood. There were perhaps a dozen place settings scattered about, all to one side.

From a curtain past the table, Tarble appeared, with a scarcely contained smile behind his professional exterior. “Prince Vegeta. Lady Bulma. Would you like to be seated?”

Vegeta, in lieu of an answer, strode to the table and sat in the chair across the gold place setting.

Glancing at the plethora of plates, Bulma turned to Tarble. “Will there be more joining us tonight?”

“Oh, no.” Tarble shook his head. “Just you and my liege.”

“Okay,” she drawled. “Then where do I sit?”

This realization seemed to smack the smile off of his face. Tarble turned to his brother, who showed no sign of any emotion but had sat straight up nonetheless. The chief of staff cleared his throat. “Traditionally,” he said, “A woman dining with the elite would sit to the right of her host.”

Bulma, suspecting there was some subtlety she was missing, walked to the indicated chair and sat herself in it. Both the Saiyans visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping and tail curling leisurely around their waists.

Vegeta turned to his brother, who without prompting vanished behind the curtain he came from.

Bulma laid her hands in her lap, trying to resist the urge to examine the cutlery. “So what's for dinner?”

“I do not know,” Vegeta said with a slight wave of his hand. “Tarble has planned the menu.”

“Does he usually plan good menus?”

“Yes.” There was an inkling of pride in the Prince's face. “His kitchen staff is the envy of the empire.”

“Oh, I see,” Bulma accused with a smirk. “So you keep a top of the line kitchen, but can't maintain your engine room?”

“The Saiyan Prince has his priorities,” Vegeta said wryly. “An army marches on its stomach.”

“Ah, so we share that idiom.”

Tarble returned with a large glass carafe of a rosy pink liquid and two polished wooden goblets. He poured one for each of them, bubbles rising from the bottom as it hit the cups.

“What is this?” Bulma asked, picking it up and examining it. “I thought you said Saiyans didn't drink alcohol.”

“This is not alcohol,” Vegeta said simply.

“It's a drink from our original homeworld,” Tarble specified. “Made from native fruit.” He left the carafe on the table and then vanished once more.

Bulma swirled the goblet around and sniffed it. It had a pleasant aroma, light and fruity, almost like watermelon. “Okay.”

Vegeta raised his goblet and gestured with it toward her. “Try it.”

Bulma briefly wondered whether their native foods were poisonous to humans, but decided to take that risk and sipped at the fruit drink. The first sensation was the bubbles, with the familiar feeling of carbonation tickling her nose. After that, it was...sweet! Not cloyingly so, though. Like honeysuckle, and then it developed to be bright and fresh. Almost a blend of watermelon and cherry. Or maybe huckleberry, maybe strawberry? There was an earthy yet sour finish, sort of like lemon and...a less harsh radish, perhaps?

“This is delicious!” Bulma said with a grin.

Vegeta practically glowed at that. “It is our sweetest drink,” he said proudly. “I suspected you would enjoy it.”

There was a fuzzy and warm feeling in her chest at that. “Wow, Vegeta. That's so thoughtful! Who knew you were actually paying attention to me this whole time.”

“Believe me, engineer,” Vegeta said, “You are impossible to ignore.”

She snickered and nodded.

Tarble appeared then, accompanied by a few Saiyans wearing unusual white uniforms. “Sire,” he said, “Your dinner is prepared.”

“Bring it out,” Vegeta commanded.

The chief of staff clapped his hands back toward the curtain, and a miniature army of Saiyans poured out, holding trays upon trays of food, the trays all dyed the same gold as Vegeta’s plate. Meats with the bone still in roasted to a beautiful golden brown—a whole animal’s worth on each plate. Vegetables she didn’t recognize sliced in giant quantities. Sauces in basins the size of a bathroom sink. The grey stuff that Chi-Chi liked to prepare with her weekly dinners, but more of it. Countless other things. Each Saiyan set a tray down along the edge of the table without settings as Tarble watched, close to Vegeta and across from her. The smells were wonderful.

One last Saiyan hefted a much smaller tray along with him, one that was the deep red of her place setting, and this was set directly next to Bulma. On closer inspection, it revealed itself to be a little of everything on the larger trays, in what could be human-sized proportions were it not still so huge.

Vegeta looked over at this little tray. “Is that all you shall eat?”

“Are you kidding? This is way more than I can eat at one time.”

The Prince laughed. “Perhaps this is why your species is so weak, if you consume so little.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, but that only served to make him laugh harder.

Eventually, his guffaws faded to a low rumble, and Vegeta picked up his bear claws, flecks of gold inlaid on them catching the light. He threaded his gloved fingers in between the spikes, wrapping his thumb around to grip the handles. “Eat,” he said. “It is fresh.”

“These might be a little big,” Bulma said as she picked up her set and flipped them over. There were five spikes, four gaps, but she couldn’t stretch her fingers fully—even just the effort was uncomfortable.

Vegeta glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. “Your hands are small. You are holding them incorrectly,” he said, reaching over. She looked down as the Prince gingerly plucked her pinkies out from the last of the gaps and slid it beside her ring fingers. There was a notch in that particular gap, one she hadn’t noticed immediately. He pressed down on her fingers for emphasis, their hands entwining for a moment before he slid away. “This is the proper grip.”

“Thanks,” Bulma said, her voice cracking.

Vegeta stabbed his bear claws into a large side of meat and scooped it to his place, the flesh detaching from the bone as it was set down, incredibly tender. He flipped the claw out of the way and grasped his knife in the palm, hooking the forked end into the meat and shoveling it into his mouth. Well. It seemed that sloppy eating was a common trait among all the Saiyans in her life.

Bulma looked down at her own claws—the grip actually seemed comfortable now—and gingerly did the same to a much smaller piece off her own tray, fumbling the meat as it split apart but managing to get the majority of it in front of her. Getting her hands around the knife was a bit more of a hassle, but she managed to get a morsel between her lips.

The Prince and the chief of staff were both staring at her as she chewed, swallowed, waiting on her response.

It was perfectly done. The outside was crisp, some sort of sweet marinade caramelized around it, deliciously flaky and crunchy. But it was unbelievably tender, no wonder it fell apart. Fat was marbled throughout the cut, almost nutty in flavor but delicate in texture. She took another bite, then another, barely needing to chew. The whole slab was gone within seconds.

She beamed as she looked up. “My compliments to the chef!”

“My lady,” Tarble crooned, “You could pay my men no better compliment than the way you devoured that.”

Vegeta had a wide grin of his own. “And here I thought you would eat timidly.”

“Hah!” Bulma shook her head. “Have I ever been timid?”

The Prince used his claws to spear a roast vegetable, purplish green skinned with pale flesh. “Try these,” he said, putting the whole of it on her plate.

She sliced off a bite’s worth. It was salty, perhaps a bit like artichoke in taste despite looking more like a radish. Delicious. Gone soon as well. She washed it down with more of the fruit drink, then shot the two men a winning smile.

Vegeta waved off Tarble, who, delighted, brought the staff back into the kitchens.

“I hope they get to eat some of this,” Bulma said as she strategized, forming a plan of attack for the rest of the tray. “It's spectacular.”

“Hn.” Vegeta paused a moment, some bread-like substance halfway to his mouth. “I'm not sure if they eat.”

“Well, I hope so.” Bulma had decided upon something that looked like Brussels sprouts in chocolate sauce. It ended up being a sour but savory thing, nothing like she expected.

Neither of them said much for a moment, both stuffing their faces. Bulma would have liked to think that she ate a bit neater than her dining partner, but that probably wasn't so.

By the time Vegeta was on his last tray, Bulma had managed to get through about a third of hers and was right stuffed, having tried a little of everything and gone back for seconds or thirds with most of it. She leaned back in her chair, hand resting on her full belly.

When only the bones were left on his golden trays, and when Bulma was sure she could not eat another bite, they both leaned back in their chairs. The staff came quickly, to gather the remnants (“No no, Bulma,” Tarble said when she made an attempt to stack her dishes, “Please. There is no need.”) and carry them off.

She patted her stomach once the commotion died down. “I can see why you'd prioritize that over the engines, although I still disagree.”

“Full, after so little?”

“Hey, it takes hard work to maintain this girlish figure.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes. “Woman, your figure is anything but girlish.”

Bulma wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended at that, so she settled for a brief frown. “Thanks.”

One of the kitchen staff returned with a large pot, resembling a teapot, steam streaming out of a spout, along with two porcelain mugs with dual handles.

“Oh my God,” Bulma said as she caught a whiff of the steam. “That smells just like coffee.” The sudden craving was overwhelming—she hadn't seen heads or tails of coffee since arriving on Namek. As a mug was poured in front of her, the substance even looked similar, a hot brown liquid, though with a tinge of blue as it caught the light. She cupped the mug in her hands, letting the heat seep in. “What is this?”

“Ground kernels of a seed, mixed with hot water.” Vegeta picked up his own mug and took a big swig of it. “It is popular among the soldiers. It has stimulant properties.”

That was all she needed to hear. Bulma normally took her coffee with heaps of sugar and cream, but she didn't care about that now. She took a slurping sip, the flavor so close to what she was expecting it was uncanny. It was bitter, though, more so than the roasts she was used to, and had almost a cedar aftertaste. But it was rich, and warm, and just so close to coffee that she couldn't believe it, staring into the mug a moment.

“Is your tongue bitten out,” Vegeta inquired, “Or is there something wrong?”

“No,” Bulma said, taking a deeper drink and then setting the mug down. “I'm just thinking about how such similar things could exist so far apart.”

To her surprise, he nodded. “Our species, for one.”

“Exactly.” She leaned back in her chair, gazing over at him. “I wish I had a good explanation for it. Short of all life in the universe having a recent common ancestor, though...” She shrugged.

“Perhaps there is.” Vegeta's tail had come up to laze on the table, his expression just shy of wistful as he reclined. “Who knows what ancient races could have visited our worlds.”

Bulma decided to store that thought for later, when she could revisit everything she knew about human evolution, and instead sipped her drink. The Prince did the same. Their silence was warm and comfortable, drinking, thinking, looking at each other on occasion. The night was waning on, and even with the stimulant she felt the stirrings of sleep within her.

When Bulma finished her almost-coffee, she set the mug aside and dared to beam at Vegeta. “Thank you for dinner,” she said simply. “I’m afraid it’s nearly time for bed.”

A lazy smile, one that, dare she say, was full of promise? “I hope it was to your liking.”

She hoped that her own smile was answer enough, as she stood from the table, gave him a little head nod. He watched her carefully, relaxed and mirthful, as she took a few steps back toward the door.

“Bulma,” Vegeta said gently, almost as if to avoid spooking her, and the sound of his name on her lips again made a chill run up her spine as she turned around.

“Yes?” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt.

A dark and sultry look had come over him. “I think that you should have dinner with me again.”

She bit her lip for a moment, then took a deep breath. When she smiled, it didn’t feel shaky. “Day after tomorrow?”

The Prince gave a toothy grin, teeth and fangs glinting in the light. She strode off.

* * *

Engineering was quiet that day. Bulma was holding a socket wrench and staring at the warp engine, which was vexing her. She couldn't quite remember what she'd been doing, which was just as puzzling.

“Bulma,” a voice said behind her, and it was Vegeta. He had been there all along, like always. Today he was wearing much less than usual, though, no shirt or boots, just a cape, trousers, and gloves. There was a smile on his face and his arms were crossed looking at her.

Bulma reached her hand out for him and it felt like moving her arms through water. He was close to her now, somehow, and she was resting her hand on his chest. His skin was so warm it felt like coals, but she didn't want to pull away from the burn. Where had his cape gone? A rope was sliding around her waist too tightly, taking her breath away. He was so near her. So warm. Her skin felt like it was burning too, and Vegeta had wrapped his hands around her shoulders, massive hands, thumbs hooked over her collarbone and fingertips touching behind the shoulder blades. There was something about his face that was different, too. She couldn't place it.

“I have you, woman,” he growled, and she was suddenly back on Arcose, the scent of destruction in the air. She was bound, clothing in tatters, and Vegeta was glowing brightly. Everything was quiet around them but she could hear a heartbeat, was it hers pounding in her ears?

The ground beneath her was soft as the Prince set her down on it. No, not the ground, a bed. Her bed, in the compound on Namek. The air was warm, heated by the aura around his body. His gloves were gone now and he seemed to move too quickly for her, but there was a hand on her chest, snaking up underneath her shirt. Everything revolved around the heat. Her shirt was gone, where did it go? Was he speaking? There was a rumbling in the air as he caressed her. She was naked now and had no memory of how that came to be but it didn't matter, there was suddenly something warm and big between her legs, a spring winding up, a rush in her ears like the ocean, and—

—Bulma snapped up to a sitting position, her knuckles white from the effort of clutching her sheets. As the covers fell off of her she could feel the a chill from the sweat beading on her skin from the night. As she looked around her bedroom on the Saiyan castle ship, trying to catch her breath, the remains of the dream fell away from her, leaving a buzzing in her head and a sticky feeling everywhere else.

Oh God.

The realization struck her and she bolted out of bed for the shower, spinning the knobs wildly. As the cold spray hit her skin, the memory of his hands touching her started to fade, the heat replaced with ice. Instant goosebumps. Thank fuck she'd installed a real showerhead, not the misting nonsense she'd put up with before.

Deep breaths. Deeper ones.

When her heart rate felt more normal, Bulma flopped to the floor of the shower and pulled her knees up to her forehead. Thinking through things was what she was good at, that would calm her down.

First of all, Vegeta wasn't even human, so that was the immediate thing to unpack. She couldn't deny that there had been...something between the two of them lately. For one, he'd been complimenting her, or maybe more importantly not yelling at her. Then there was dinner. She probably had a scandalizing dream about the Prince just because he was essentially her boss. It happened sometimes. What was the point of delving into it?

Then again, some part of her chimed in, if the concern was not being human, clearly Chi-Chi had made something out of the whole affair. But Kakarot at least looked human, like most of the Saiyans, with the obvious exception of the fuzzy tails and stupid hair. Vegeta couldn't say the same—whether that was his natural phenotype or he'd entered some sort of transformed state, he definitely seemed more animal than man.

Did he, though? Perhaps when he first arrived he did, but now he'd actually been civil to her...the protruding brow and sharp teeth weren't that foreign. He was actually somewhat charming, in his way. Gruff, yes. But awkward. Coarse, yes. But...sweet? That! That was the problem. She flashed back to the night before, their dinner. He’d reached for her hand, without prompting. He’d joked with her, stared at her with those dark eyes, with that toothy grin. And he was...witty, even?

Bulma begrudgingly turned the shower off and stepped out into the bathroom. She pictured the day before her, working on tuning the power couplings in the warp manifolds while Vegeta worked his way through a book on faster than light energy sources. They'd separate in the middle of the day as usual, Bulma synthesizing a quick lunch and Vegeta doing...something, honestly she wasn't sure what. Then the afternoon, more of the same until the evening, where she’d be having dinner with Chi-Chi.

“Man,” Bulma said as she shivered in her towel, “I hope this doesn’t become a habit.”


	20. Scientific Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma does a little research on the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! This bit was intended to be posted with Chapter 19, but I didn't quiiite have it finished in time. So, here it is a few days later! 
> 
> Part of this section was inspired by [The Gods Themselves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423641) by Kanthia!

Bulma rolled into the engine room later than usual, in part due to her...scandalous dreams the night before. A quick look around revealed no sign of the Saiyan Prince. No, instead there was a blinking light near the main screen. A message. She tapped the requisite button.

A holographic image of the Prince appeared, pre recorded. He looked quite sour. “Engineer,” it said. “I have an urgent matter to attend to today, and so I will not be able to translate for you. I am afraid we will also have to cancel dinner tomorrow." The hologram hesitated for a moment, then Vegeta finished, “I hope to see you soon.”

The recording cut out, and Bulma tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. Honestly, this was probably good. She wasn't sure how she could face Vegeta in person after...last night.

Trying to ignore the empty feeling, Bulma set to deconstructing the power coupling casings and beginning tuning.

Her mind wandered into the biological sphere as she tinkered, a part of her brain she'd been exercising much more lately, and not entirely willingly. In fact, the subject she kept returning to was Garban. The little hybrid tyke. She had no knowledge, of course, of how strong the kiddo was, nor how much of a desire to wage war he had, but he definitely lacked any ill will. To be fair, Bulma hadn’t spent that much time getting to know him, he was just usually an accompaniment to his parents and uncle.

Still, he was living proof that Humans and Saiyans could interbreed, and that idea was still so fascinating for her...purely from a scientific standpoint, of course. She’d heard about crazy hybrids in the native animals on Earth—all of the big cats, right? And she vaguely remembered an old biology professor saying something about birds of paradise. (Well, actually, she remembered the stupid dance he did mimicking one of them.) Man, she’d love to get a chunk of Saiyan tissue and sequence it. Who knew what crazy chemistry they had! But regardless, they were definitely interfertile despite being from different planets. What were the chances, she wondered, that Saiyans could have colonized Earth at some point? If they sent infants out often enough, it was possible that given enough time they could establish, evolve to lose their tails.

How similar were they, though, as species? Obviously from the outside they looked extraordinarily similar, at least for the parts that she could see (and if you took Vegeta as the exception). The musculature was somewhat different of course. And that tail. A whole different appendage! It seemed like it had a mind of its own sometimes, the way it betrayed it's owner's feelings. She'd spent a few daydreams imagining her life with one attached to her, letting her handle more tools, experience the sensation. Maybe if she ever got back to Namek she could wish herself one. How much leverage did it get, she wondered? Vegeta had popped a couple of the pod casings off with just a brush of it, and she'd felt firsthand how strong and rope like it could be.

A stray thought came to Bulma, then. What did they use the tails for? Balance, perhaps? Was there some special purpose? Vegeta occasionally used it like a tool, to bind and manipulate things. Did the size or quality of the tail say something about the health of Saiyans? A sexually selected trait? Or was it just useful?

Bulma quashed down another thought about sexual selection that she suspected would lead to more dreams. Returning to more innocent thoughts, though. Why was Vegeta covered in fuzzy red fur anyway? He'd said that he was maintaining some sort of transformation, a Super Saiyan if you would. From a legend. Would they all be fuzzy, if they attained that much power? And he'd said something about transforming into apes, even as infants. She assumed that form was fuzzy. Was it that same process coming out?

“Hey, Vegeta—” she started without thinking, even turning to face his usual table, but of course he wasn't there. Put out and frowning, Bulma set her tools down.

Maybe, she thought to herself, if the Saiyan Prince was away she could sneak out of engineering. Not that it was sneaking, of course, given that she had full run of the ship, but still. Vegeta had mentioned a library, could she find it? She wasn't solid on her Saiyan but she could probably get close enough to read a few basic biology textbooks, if they had them.

She only had a few minutes of work until she hit a good stopping point, so Bulma finished up and then pulled her trusty illicit map up on the screen. Library, library...there was one room that hadn't been translated yet (she'd been slacking since her escape) and she didn't know what it said, but she recognized the word for book within the name, so that was probably her best bet. Oh, and it was close to the medical wing! Good to know.

She strode out of engineering toward her new destination. The shift was in full swing, so she didn't see much of anyone, at least until she passed by the wing toward the bridge. Turns out, Kakarot and Raditz were stationed there, at the entrance.

She waved at them. “Hello!”

“Bulma!” they both called, matching smiles on their faces.

She pointed down the hallway behind them. “I'm guessing Vegeta is doing something down there?”

“Yup!” Kakarot said. “No one is supposed to come down this hallway until he's back.”

Raditz nodded. “I'm not sure what's going on, but someone from our next trade planet contacted us late last night.”

“Hm. Well, whoever it is, they must be important.” Bulma tapped her chin, her mind racing with possibilities.

“Where are you going?” Kakarot chirped, interrupting her thoughts.

“The library!” She pulled up her map on a nearby wall panel. “Or at least, I think this is the library.”

“It is,” said Raditz.

“Perfect. Yeah, I have some research I want to do. While the cat's away, and all that.”

“What's a cat?”

“Raditz,” Kakarot whined, “You never know anything about Earth.”

A thought came to her. “Hey, I assume you both are busy? I could use some company.” Come to think of it, she wasn't sure she'd ever been alone for a whole day...

They both shook their heads. “Sorry, Lady Bulma,” Raditz said with a frown. “Vegeta gave us very explicit instructions.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms. “What does a man that powerful need guards for anyway? You two should be off doing more interesting stuff.”

Kakarot lit up. “I've told him that so many times!”

“Shut _up_ , Kakarot!”

“Ow! What was that for?”

Bulma chuckled in spite of herself. “I'll see you folks at dinner,” she said, heading further down the hallway with a cheery wave.

“Goodbye!” the Sons of Bardock called as she vanished.

* * *

Bulma entered the door marked library and was stopped in her tracks by the sheer number of books and scrolls on the shelves. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall! Pale wood made up most of the furnishings, the same color as the bear claws from the night before. Occasionally there was a splash of obsidian, a striking contrast. From the ceiling hung a beautiful chandelier, made of what looked like red and yellow glass. The room was circular and each shelf formed a concentric ring, the very middle of the library containing a table with a built in viewscreen.

She set off in a random direction, browsing the labels above the books for something interesting. First she found a large swath of shelves that were empty, no doubt the technical manuals that we're now scattered throughout engineer. Yes, there was the label—“Machinery”, in the Saiyan script. A little ways further and she came upon another shelf that, so far as she could tell, was dedicated entirely to cookbooks. She cracked one open to an entirely unknown language, illustrated with graphic images of exotic animal butchery. She slammed the pages together. Moving along then.

There was a large section that appeared to be Fiction, lots of works translated into Standard from their original languages (or not translated at all). Bulma didn't see any Saiyans texts, though. Maybe there weren't any great writers for their species? Or maybe Vegeta just didn't care about stories. She'd have to try and find the Opera section later, she decided.

Finally, Bulma made it to the section she was after. The header was marked Medical texts, and she was really jonesing to brush up on her Saiyan anatomy. Purely scientifically, of course.

It took a few minutes to locate what looked like a basic Saiyan anatomical text, translated to Standard (thank goodness). It was a hefty tome, bound crisply together—it creaked when she opened it. She dragged it to a nearby side table, one of the many scattered about within the concentric rings of shelves, and scanned through the table of contents. It was too dense to read all at once, that was for sure, but perhaps she could cherry pick a few sections?

“Let's see...” Bulma muttered to herself. “How about... musculoskeletal?”

It was a long section but she digested it quickly. Amazing convergence! Their system superficially looked the same as most Earth apes. They had more vertebrae, and more ribs...the makeup of their bones was tougher, probably to cope with the higher gravity. But the muscle attachments were in roughly the same places, and the structures were nearly identical. She flipped through to their cardiopulmonary system. Okay, there were some differences. Saiyans seemed to have a modified set of lungs...almost bird like, actually, a circular one-way system. Much more efficient. The heart was a bit different also, the walls being thicker but seemingly without the downsides of inefficiency. But still, mammalian!

In her professional opinion, there had to be some sort of shared ancestry. This level of convergence was just too high to be coincidental.

Bulma’s eyes dashed over the rest of the table of contents. She lingered over one. The reproductive system. Her fingers twitched toward the edge of the page...she had so many questions...

Nope. Nope. She slammed the book shut, a bit of dust erupting from between the pages, and shoved the whole thing back toward the edge of the table, then, deciding that wasn't enough, she rushed it back to its designated shelf and bolted for the door. The battle between curiosity and pride was not worth it, no it was not. She needed to go back to engineering, where it was safe, and there were no anatomically correct images of Saiyans.

But...she turned back to glance at it. Well, maybe it would be a battle worth fighting another time. For science.

* * *

Later that evening, Bulma sat in Kakarot and Chi-Chi’s quarters, dinner already consumed. The four adults sat on the couch, with little Garban dozing, hugging his cloth dragon ball on the floor. Kakarot and Raditz had nodded off themselves, the meal doing them in. The women, though, sat in warm silence for a bit, each holding a mug of some (synthesized) tea in their hands.

Her eyes moving between Kakarot and Garban, Bulma broke the silence by setting her tea down. The men did not stir. “I have to ask.”

Chi-Chi’s eyes widened. “Yes?”

Bulma averted her gaze, looking into her mug. “Exactly how...compatible are Saiyans and Humans?”

“I mean, Goku eats me out of house and home, and doesn’t fully understand that I don’t have the desire to be sparring 24/7, but—”

“No, Chi-Chi, I—” Bulma waves her hands. “That’s not—I mean—”

Chi-Chi paused a moment, then flushed bright red. “Bulma!” she hissed, whipping her head around at the men and her son, all of whom were still sound asleep. “That’s...so personal!”

She bit her lip. “I just need to know, okay?”

“I’m not telling you about our... _sex life_ , Bulma! Why do you want to know this?!”

“I’m a scientist, Chi-Chi! I need to understand these things.”

“Oh, Kami.” She hung her head for a second, and when she righted herself her bun had fallen out, black strands of hair frizzing this way and that. “Can you at least be more specific?”

“Does it...” Bulma made an obscene gesture with her hands. “You know. Work normally?”

Really, the red color Chi-Chi’s face had made would made an absolutely stunning tomato. “I don’t know, I’ve only ever been with Goku—as far as I can tell, there’s no differences, but—really, why do you want to know about this?!”

The lack of immediate answer on Bulma's part was apparently enough to make Chi-Chi flinch backwards with a gasp. Below them, her son stirred and the women froze, but little Garban simply rolled over with a little squeak and went right back to sleep.

His mother whipped her head back to Bulma. “Who are you thinking about sleeping with, Bulma Briefs?!”

Bulma gasped herself and pointed an accusatory finger. “First of all, how dare you insinuate that my intentions are anything but purely scientific—”

(“Are they though?” Chi-Chi cut in.)

“—and second of all, I'm not thinking of sleeping with anybody! Who would I sleep with? Raditz?!”

“There _is_ a rumor going around—”

“It's not true and you know that.”

“Well, as long as it's not my Goku!”

“Oh my God, Chi-Chi, it's not him.”

“So it's someone then.”

Bulma groaned and hung her head.

The other woman was smiling now. “Who do you have a crush on, _Lady Bulma_?”

“I just want to know, okay?”

“By all means. Ask away. If it'll help you settle down with a cute Saiyan boy—”

“You sound like my _mother_.”

“—I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know.”

She releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. “All right. Well, buckle up. I've got a list.”

* * *

Bulma left Chi-Chi's quarters having learned three things.

One, Saiyans had incredible stamina, senses of smell, and instincts that, honestly, she was going to have to dwell on once she was alone in her bed—let alone the fact that they had a third limb to play with.

Two, Kakarot and Chi-Chi had _way_ more sex than she thought either of them would tolerate, which she would absolutely not be dwelling on ever again in any capacity.

And three, there was a small, imperceptible, very near to vanishing chance that Bulma had lied about her intentions being purely scientific.


	21. Shields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma gets a new project.

Bulma had reached a point with the engines where they had to wait until they stopped on the next planet. First of all, she was desperate to get some replacement palladium so that she could repair the pod casings, and some other miscellaneous materials for building. And second of all, she needed Vegeta back from whatever meetings he'd had with said trade world, because she had exactly zero ability to read the next section of the manual for the fuel intake, but she was pretty sure flashing red lights were not good. So, she’d started planning ahead. If they were on their way to the Saiyan homeworld and she had to contend with 10X gravity, she was gonna need to do something to survive the stress. Thus, Bulma had begun building a gravity simulator, so far one that could handle 3X gravity—something that would give her a chance to test whatever she could throw at it. At the moment she was trying out some armbands that generated a forcefield.

The doors to engineering, as they typically did, swished open without warning.

“Speak of the Devil,” Bulma said as Vegeta strode in, wiping her hands on a rag.

But Vegeta had a scowl on his face, beyond his usual sour temperament, and it seemed he was in no mood to banter with her. In fact, he said four words that made her drop the rag.

“I need your help,” Prince Vegeta bit out through clenched teeth.

“...Come again?”

“The traders from Arlia refuse to speak to me,” he growled. “They reject my authority. I need you to repair the ship’s weapons systems.”

She blanched. “I don't—”

“They will not bow to a Prince!” he burst out, slamming his fists upon a table, scattering writing implements. She jumped back instinctively, and he noticed this and hastily pulled his hands back to his sides, still balled up.  The air was steadily draining of warmth. “Only a King! The imbeciles! Vile insects! They are asking to be obliterated—”

“Slow down!” She reached out and laid her palms on his forearms, and that seemed to snap him out of his rant, at least for a moment. “Vegeta, you need to calm down.”

“I need to do nothing of the sort,” he snapped, air still chilly but at least no longer plunging. “Without the Arlians we will not be able to acquire supplies before homeworld.” He stalked to a control panel and aggressively punched in commands, the screen projecting a series of bar charts. “All of our stocks are critically low. Food, fuel, medicine, the lot of it.”

She made a note for later about the fuel. “And they won't let you refuel because of your status. Okay. Why not just...make them?”

“Do you listen?!” he growled, fingers briefly yanking at his hair. As he spoke, the words came faster and more frantically. “Their ships are too technologically advanced. Our weaponry does not match theirs in the slightest and we are outnumbered. I wouldn't be able to protect the ship alone, no amount of remaining in this form would allow us to resist a direct attack from their armada, without upgrades to the main weapons systems—”

“I'm not doing anything to your weapons, Vegeta.” She shot him a stern look. “I get what you're worried about, but I'm not giving an emperor superior arms just because we're friends."

He was momentarily taken aback. “Friends?” he muttered, but then the rest of her words sunk in and he glared. “I order you to work on the main weapons.”

She crossed her arms. “No. That's not part of our agreement for being on the ship.”

He took a step toward her, looming. “Then I am changing our agreement!”

“Then I'll leave!” She slashed her hand through the air in front of her. “I've done plenty of extra work for you without asking, but I draw the line here! No weapons!”

Vegeta let out a loud, deep growl, threw his balled fists into the air, and whirled away from her.

They stood there, each fuming, for what felt like an eternity.

“Look,” Bulma finally said, “I'll help you beef up your defense systems, okay? Shields, hull plating. That stuff. But you're on your own for weapons. I don't want any part of your interplanetary conflict.”

He didn't turn around. “I remind you that you're on this ship, and if it gets attacked you get attacked with it.”

“Oh, come on Vegeta,” Bulma said with an eye roll. “Don't pretend like I can't make your shields impenetrable in a day.”

He faced her, muscles in his jaw clenched tight. “You will begin the modifications now,” he bit out.

She sighed, trying to ignore her frustration. “Fine. I don’t have anything else to do today, anyway.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth had he stalked back toward the door. “I will bring you to the shield generators.”

Bulma bit her lip against the scream she so desperately wanted to launch at him, exiting engineering as she was told and following the Prince as he beelined through an unfamiliar hallway, and down countless flights of stairs. Walking back up was going to be a doozy.

As they walked down the corridor, she chanced a glance at him—or more accurately, his back, given that he was directly in front of her the entire walk. Despite her concessions, his exterior was still cold, literally and figuratively.

“Hey, Vegeta—”

“Even now, your questions are unceasingly annoying.”

She huffed, turning away from him. Whatever. Let him be an ass to her. “Why aren’t you king yet?”

“My father is the King,” he bit out in a clipped tone.

“So there's special rules about succession?” she asked. “You don't become king automatically?”

“I was never crowned.” He leveled a glance at her, nearly a glare. “There were more important things to consider than royalty.”

And, yeah, that was fair enough for her. “Are you gonna get crowned?”

Vegeta gave a curt nod.

“Why not tell the Arlians that?”

“As always your political solutions are overly simplistic.” His fists balled together.

“Aren't you the fucking emperor?” she spat.

“I hold no domain over Arlia!”

“Well that sounds like your problem, then! Why do you need me?! Use your own weapons. You're a weapon all in yourself.”

He stopped so suddenly that she slammed into his back, stumbling as she fell into the wall beside her. Whatever scathing remark she opened her mouth to unleash was silenced as she saw him turn to look at her. If looks could kill… Her teeth clicked as she rapidly shut her mouth. Vegeta kept walking. She really didn’t want to know what nerve she’d touched.

Eventually they hit a room she’d never seen before, the door swishing open automatically as they approached. It was much like engineering, panels everywhere, only instead of a large warp core there was a much smaller piece of machinery, presumably the generator. The few meters of floor surrounding it were made of that synthetic polymer that passed for glass on the ship, and through it she could see them sail past scores of stars.

“That’s beautiful,” she said as she walked toward it, kneeling down to get a better look. Through it she could make out one of the warp nacelles, doing exactly nothing since she hadn’t gotten them back online. The auxiliary engines were humming along, though, just inside the nacelle, and she could see the glow of the fuel as it burned.

Vegeta was pulling up something on the screens. “Hmph. I brought you here for the shields, not to gawk.”

She stood. “Come on, Vegeta. You can’t tell me that you don’t appreciate the view.”

His eyes scanned over her, then through the viewing port. “I suppose it is...nice.” Then he pointedly jabbed at a holographic projection of the shield generator with his thumb.

Bulma trudged over to inspect it. It seemed to be a digitized page from a technical manual. She used her fingers to spin the projection around in mid air, looking at all the component parts. Near the base of the projection were written a series of equations, thankfully in Standard not Saiyan, describing the resonance frequency of the screens while they were online. Bulma clicked her tongue.

“What?”

“You use a single frequency for your shields.” She pointed at a term in the equation. “You should really rotate through frequencies randomly to prevent—”

“Spare me the lectures,” Vegeta grumbled. “I don't understand anything about this system. Your words would be lost on me.”

Bulma deflated. “All right, fine, I'll just change them.”

The Prince frowned. As Bulma grabbed her tools, he walked to a nearby wall and leaned against it, facing her.

“You don't have to stay,” she said as she popped open a panel of wires.

“I wish to,” he muttered, almost embarrassed? “I...enjoy your company.”

Despite everything, Bulma had to smile at that. “Huh. I guess we are friends.”

“So it would seem, Engineer.”

* * *

A few hours later, the modulation of the shield frequencies was finished, and Bulma had drafted an idea for a more fortified version of the shields themselves as her stomach started to growl. In a return to his behaviors of previous weeks, the Prince had watched her work and said almost nothing.

Bulma put her tools down on a nearby work bench. “I'm gonna go grab lunch,” she said, turning to him. “Do you want to come with me?”

Vegeta stiffened, hair on his tail going rigid. He curtly shook his head.

She frowned. “Why not?”

Was he fidgeting? “I typically spend the lunch hours in the pods,” he grumbled.

“Okay. So?” She shrugged. “What’s the big deal?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t eat lunch.”

“Well, I can eat lunch and work on fixing that disassembled pod, how about? Lunch around here is pretty boring anyway.”

To her surprise, Vegeta flushed a brilliant shade of red, nearly matching his fur. “That is completely unacceptable!”

Bulma sighed. “Work with me here, homeboy. I’m trying to spend time with you.”

“You misunderstand, Engineer,” he hissed. “I cannot permit you to see me in the pods—”

“Oh please, like I care about that! You’re just going to be floating in some tank water, what’s so—”

“—in a state of complete undress—”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“—it is entirely improper, and I will not permit some commoner—”

“What?! So I’m a commoner now?! I’ll have you know, mister, that I am one of Earth’s elite, I’m a billionaire, People Magazine’s most beautiful, I have a Nobel Prize in Physics—”

“—to see me in such a vulnerable—will you shut up, woman!”

“—and I swear to God, Vegeta, Prince or not, if you call me woman like that one more time I am going to use you as rocket fuel! I just wanted to get fucking lunch and now you’re having a hissy—don’t you walk away from me, you jackass!”

“Fine! I’ll eat the meal with you if that will make you stop with your incessant claptrap!”

“Good! Great! Fine! I didn’t want to see you naked anyway.”

“What?!”

“I mean—look, I’m getting lunch now, you can come with me or not.”

“I already said I’m coming with you, vile creature.”

“Arrogant brute.”

“Ceaseless harpy!”

“Gaping asshole!”

“Tch.”

“Ugh. I’m getting something incredibly heavy after this conversation. Like ice cream. Or chicken parm.”

“If you insist, _Lady_ Bulma.”

“Don’t you fucking sweet talk me, Princey.”

* * *

Despite the fiery argument, Bulma and Vegeta had a relatively quiet lunch, cross-legged on the floor in the shield generator room. She had, in fact, synthesized a chicken parm sandwich for herself, and once Vegeta had smelled the damn thing he'd demanded twelve of his own, then inhaled them like they were cotton candy. Bulma, who ate at a reasonable pace, thank you very much, was munching through the last third of her meal as Vegeta made quick work of the final two sandwiches.

Something, Bulma realized as she polished off the last few bites of her sandwich, was in the back of her mind. Something that, to be honest, she probably should let alone. But Bulma Briefs was the sort of person who, at six years old, had decided to take a stick to a wasps nest, get chased off, and the next day try loosing a hose at it because the stick hadn’t worked. She wasn't good at leaving things alone.

“Hey, Vegeta?”

He just sighed.

“Does your species have a taboo against nudity?”

You would have thought she’d slapped him. “I _beg_ your pardon?!”

“Your outburst from before—”

“I am the emperor, I do not have outbursts.”

“That's fucking rich. Anyway, you were all, yadda yadda vulnerability blah blah pods. What vulnerability? Aren't you hugely strong?”

He snorted. “Of course.”

She waved her hand about. “So you must have some sort of nudity taboo.”

“I'm hardly ashamed of my form. Clothing is irrelevant.”

“Then what gives?”

“No one is permitted to be in the pod room when I am resting there.”

“Except Tarble.”

He shot her a glare. “Those were extenuating circumstances.”

“Fine. So you have no problems with nudity—”

“Why are you asking me this?”

She was taken aback. “What?”

Some sort of amusement was creeping to his face. “I ask you the same question, Engineer. Your culture must have qualms about nudity to be pressing about it.”

She cringed. “I mean...us humans don't usually spend time naked as adults, no.”

He nodded, smiling, the first smile of the day. “So your species is prudish.”

“Oh lord,” she said through a chuckle. “Not even close.”

“So you are uncomfortable with your physical forms.”

“No! Yes? Look, it's just...a very sexualized thing, okay? I hardly think—”

“Are you uncomfortable now, Engineer?” His voice was low. Vegeta’s dark eyes bored into hers, the smirk undeniable now.

“...what?”

“Well, I am partially uncovered.” He gestured to his chest, arms, the places where his armor was lacking. “Do you dislike my state of dress?”

She flushed, hastily snapping her eyes back up away from those tantalizing spots. “No, I—”

Vegeta let out a noise much like a stifled laugh. “Does this have sexual connotations for your species?”

“This isn’t happening. You have to be fucking with me.”

It was a full blown laugh now. “Ah, so it _is_ sexual.”

Bulma abruptly stood, dropping her napkin on the ground. “I’m going back to work now.”

For the second time that day, she found herself bumping into a large, warm figure. Vegeta had blinked into existence in front of her, and she’d stumbled into him, eyes at chest level. She let out a gasp and shot a look up to his face, just his face, dear God only look at his face—

“I wonder,” Vegeta drawled (oh no, that was a nice sound, oh god she was going to go into cardiac arrest at the rate her heart was beating). “What other sorts of things does your species find uncomfortable?”

And with _that_ her brain was awash with ideas and images that she really ought not to be entertaining while at work, ones that brought her back to a certain few dreams she'd been having, and Bulma came back to her senses just as she was about to lay her fingertips on his pectorals, no idea when she'd made that decision, but as soon as her brain registered it again she gasped and yanked back, spinning away from him and, with endless grace, tripping over her own feet and tumbling over with a shriek.

Strong arms surrounded her before she hit the ground, fingers curled around the small of her back. Bulma's eyes, wrenched closed, flew open. Vegeta was so _close_ to her. He'd come near her before many times, yes, during fights. But the last time she could make out the color of his eyes so clearly was Arcose, and here again those beastly features nearly faded away as she gazed at him. There was a look of concern to him, the eyes wide, the mouth slightly open. Just as quickly as he'd grasped her his tail was curling around her waist, warm and heavy against her abdomen, all of him radiating that heat, Saiyans must have a higher resting temperature than humans but that was not important now. Vegeta was righting her, getting her back to her feet, but he was scanning her up and down, glancing to her hands (resting on his bare chest, damn them, Bulma was betrayed), his hands, the tail, lingering upon her face. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she breathed. The fur on his arms brushed against her fingers—god it was like hugging a teddy bear mixed with a heated blanket mixed with a body builder. And the lines of his face were so pronounced, she could just watch them for days, enthralled by the way the tension leached out of them as he registered her words, that she was okay, even though she was still askew and half bent over and at the mercy of his arms and gravity.

“Good,” he said, almost a purr, what was that rumble to his voice, that low tone? Wow it made her head spin, was she imagining that he squeezed her just slightly closer to him? There was a flash of a tongue as he licked his lips, and Bulma was convinced a bolt of lightning had hit her, gone straight to deep parts of her. Yes, he was getting closer to her, incrementally, yes, even when she blinked a few times it was still happening, _yes_ , tentative and unsure and—

A small sound, like someone clearing their throat, had them freezing in their tracks. Like a bucket of ice water had been poured on her, everything else drained out of her focus. Both Bulma and Vegeta's heads whipped around toward the door.

“It seems I keep finding you two like this,” Tarble drawled, trying very hard to hide his amusement.

Vegeta, in shock, dropped Bulma entirely. “Ow! What the fuck, Vegeta?!”

“Announce yourself!” the Prince roared.

Bulma was on her feet, jabbing her finger into his chest. “What was that for?! Tarble, tell this giant prick of a Saiyan that he can't just drop somebody!”

“I'm afraid I can do no such thing, my lady.”

A scowl on his face and a flush to his skin, Vegeta flew out the door, but not before stopping by his brother and flicking him with his fingers. Tarble skidded back a few feet from the force of the impact, collecting himself back to standing as the Prince departed.

“Oh no,” said Bulma. She dashed over to the chief of staff.

It seemed that he was okay. Tarble brushed at dust and scuff marks newly marring his otherwise immaculate attire. “I swear, he can be so childish sometimes.”

“I heard that!” a voice shouted from the hallway.

Bulma took a deep breath. “Tarble, I honestly don't know whether to thank you or shoot you.”

“For my sake, madam, I hope you decide to thank me.”

“Leaning towards shoot now!” Bulma called as she, too, stormed out into the hallway. “If you follow me I definitely will shoot you!”

“You know I did have business to discuss!” Tarble shouted after her, but she ignored him entirely as the doors to the shield generator room shut.

* * *

Prince Vegeta had managed to make himself look smaller than she'd ever seen, his arms crossed, seated while leaning against the wall and head hanging. At least it was a normal temperature.

“Really?” she grumbled. “Sulking like a child?”

“I am not sulking,” he growled while doing just that.

She dropped down to sit beside him. “Sure. And I'm the Queen of England.”

“So you are royalty,” he said, still frowning, “Because the Prince of all Saiyans does not sulk.”

Bulma sighed and ran a hand through her hair, hoping the action would offer any sort of emotional clarity. It didn't. No, and she couldn't think of anything to say either. Talking about what had just happened would be like admitting that there was something between them, and she was still trying to convince herself that wasn’t the case. On top of that he was refusing to look at her, or at least hadn't bothered to pick his head up.

Fine. Maybe if she couldn't think of anything to say, she'd have to go with something to _do_.

Bulma reached out and gently, hesitantly, laid her hand on top of his arm. In an instant his head snapped up to look at her, and she met his wide eyed stare as she gave him a gentle squeeze.

“What are you doing?”

“Should I stop?” She cocked her head to the side. “Because I will, if you want me to.”

He gave a curt shake of the head, a clear no. Bulma hesitantly ran her fingers along the fur of his arm, down to his wrist. Goose bumps appeared behind her trailing touch, the fur fluffing up as though he were cold. A shared reflex, it seemed, travelling up to his shoulders and chest even.

Vegeta seemed to melt as she pet him, leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes with a haggard sigh. She brushed the leather edge of his gloves, cool to the touch. Then, again, elbow to wrist. Elbow to wrist. A few minutes of this while the awkwardness between them whittled away. It was almost meditative, really, the sensations. Warm and soft, then cool and firm.

“Vegeta,” she said softly after a time, “Why do you wear these gloves?” He let out another sigh, this one less relaxed, so she said, “You don't have to answer me, if you don't want.”

Rather than reply, the Prince gingerly plucked her hand from his arm, but the sting of rejection hadn't fully hit before he pulled the glove off just slightly, exposing the back of his hand for the first time, not fully. Strange, she thought, how it was this patch of flesh that felt so much more intimate to see than the rest of him. There was no fur, but riddled across the skin were a myriad of discolorations. Scars, she thought. Scars that looked like healed-over burns, cuts, lacerations. She tested the waters, gently tracing her fingertips along one, and Vegeta sucked in a breath but didn't move, didn't say anything, back ramrod straight and pressing into the wall.

She went back to her previous pattern, elbow to wrist, elbow to wrist. “Was it Frieza?” she asked.

He nodded, such a slight movement that she could have missed it. Something hot boiled up in Bulma's gut. God, she wished she'd had the chance to give this Frieza a piece of her mind. To think that he could be so cruel as to take a creature like Vegeta and…well, that thought process was not helpful, not calming. She skipped the apology—he would only chide her for it. Instead, she scooted closer to him, knees brushing his thigh.

A moment went by, as she decided, and then she gently pressed her lips to his cheek. A chaste gesture. A quick one. As she moved back, she could see the confusion in his features, a slight suspicious narrowing to his eyes. “I'm glad you're here now,” she whispered, and she was. “I'm glad you got through that.”

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. “Thank you,” he managed.

She smiled at him, stood up, and offered him her hand. That was, of course, ridiculous, as the Saiyan Prince didn't need any help getting up off the floor, but he took her hand anyway and hoisted himself in the air, towering over her once more, and even ran his thumb against her palm before he let go.

And he smiled back at her. It was small, but it was there, no trace of that smarmy grin or devious smirk he favored. Just a true-blue smile.

“All right,” she said. “Let's go see what little brother wants.”

They walked back into the shield generator room together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can't believe we're in the last third of the story! Starting to ramp up now, though our protagonists seem incapable of admitting to themselves that they just might have feelings for their counterparts...


	22. In a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma works on the ship's exterior.

A week had passed and Bulma had completely updated the shield generators, not only introducing a frequency modulator but prototyping a shield made of nanobots to be deployed on the hull. Vegeta had graciously offered to test it out on an unused section of the ship, using a round spacepod to hover just outside of their artificial atmosphere and fire full-blast at the shielding near the spire. When it held, Bulma had celebrated by synthesizing enough chocolate ice cream for both of them and engorging herself on it. Of course, he’d eaten an entire gallon of the stuff in about ten seconds, but hey, she’d gotten most of a pint in, and that was good enough for her. 

Her and the Prince been taking both lunch and dinner together lately, minus the two nights a week that Bulma had carved out to spend with Chi-Chi, Garban, Kakarot, and Raditz. In fact, as far as she could tell, Vegeta wasn’t going to the pods in the middle of the day at all anymore, which was...good? She hadn’t noticed any differences in his energy levels, so she assumed it wasn’t having any negative effects on him, but who knew. The only thing he seemed perturbed by was their imminent arrival on Arlia, and even then he wasn’t saying much about it.

Tarble, on the other hand, hadn’t _stopped_ talking about it. No, every time she saw the chief of staff it was Arlia this, Arlia that, Arlia Arlia Arlia. She had a notebook full just of stuff she was supposed to do when they landed, which boiled down to inspecting every last inch of the outside of the ship. Checking for damage, looking for places to build new improvements, all that. Just yesterday, not minutes after she’d finished the shield upgrades, he’d popped into engineering to inform her of more logistics. 

“Kakarot and Raditz will be accompanying you,” he had told her as the two aforementioned soldiers stood behind him. “Vegeta and I will be taking care of business while the crew picks up fuel and palladium.”

“You are not to leave the ship without an escort,” Vegeta had chimed in, deadly serious. “As you should have done when we landed on Arcose.”

“I promise, no Arcose repeats,” Bulma had said, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“No scouting!” Vegeta had roared, but Bulma had just laughed at him and gone back to work. 

Today, they were beginning their descent into Arlian space, Bulma running around in Engineering to ensure that all landing procedures were going right. No problems, thank goodness, even as the ship touched down onto the ground and everything stopped firing all at once. 

Huh. Everything was actually pretty quiet in Engineering once they weren’t moving.

Kakarot poked his head through the main doors. “Hey Bulma, are you ready to go!”

“Just a second,” she called, gathering tools. Her main objective today was to look at the nacelles underneath the ship—admittedly difficult, given they would be resting on the ground, but hopefully not too troublesome. After that it became a matter of looking at secondary systems. Exhaust ports, deflector dishes, stuff like that. And there was one other task that she had set aside especially for this stop...but that would come later, after business. 

They made it downstairs quickly, though by the time they got to the main doors only the straggling Saiyans were left. Bulma had it on good authority (Tarble’s authority, to be precise) that Vegeta was waiting until they had all passed and dispersed to leave himself, so as to not draw attention. There was some big meeting with the King of the planet, the contents of which she hadn’t been able to weasel out, but she bet it had to do with getting those critical supplies from the obstinate traders. Luckily, short of an attack on the ship, none of that was her problem. Vegeta had made it quite clear that they were not going to leave until they had what they wanted. 

Arlia had a dark atmosphere, the sky being a garish magenta color and the dirt an unappealing brownish-red. What she’d heard was that it was inhabited by insectoid creatures, sentient but perhaps not the most pleasant. She had exactly zero interest in meeting any of them, so instead once she had finished griping about the unpleasant planetary surroundings, she turned to face the ship. 

“What’s the best way to get to the main nacelles?” she asked Raditz.

“We’ll have to fly there,” he said. “We can carry you.”

She shrugged her agreement, and with only minor issues (such as which brother was going to carry her, which they decided was Kakarot, and what the best way was for her to actually get carried, which they decided was piggy-back style) they eventually made it to the middle of the ship. Standing back on solid ground, Bulma looked up. From this angle she could clearly see both the four nacelles, long and oval-shaped, and the blocky shield generator. 

Bulma pulled a notebook out. “Let’s start with this one,” she said, walking toward the closest nacelle. 

Inspecting them wasn’t too hard, actually. She could see fairly well from where she was on the ground—the nacelles were smaller than she might have imagined for a ship this size. The castle had to be at least 200 meters in diameter, would easily fit multiple Capsule Corp buildings inside of it, and each nacelle was about 20 meters in length, not counting the pylons where they connected to the castle or the auxiliary engines mounted alongside them. Practically dinky given that they were the main propulsion system. Kakarot would dutifully hoist her up into the air when she needed to examine the top of one, notebook paper flapping in the wind. 

On the last nacelle, though, she didn’t even have to be hoisted. Apparent even from a large distance was a large component missing, part of the hull casing that was designed to keep the inner workings from being exposed. “Huh,” she said, tapping it. “How long has this been this way?”

“No one’s examined these since we had engineers,” said Raditz. “Who knows.” 

“Doesn’t look good,” said Kakarot, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Nope.” Bulma pulled out a flashlight and shone it up the nacelle. “Thankfully it looks like it’s just a problem with the outer layers. All of the internal components seem to be fine.” She pursed her lips, doing some mental math. “Bring me up to the top, Kakarot.”

He did. The top of the nacelle was completely intact, luckily. 

As she was placed back on the ground, Bulma cringed. “I don’t think this is going to be fixable without a team of people. I definitely can’t do it all by myself. It’s too extensive.”

“So is the engine shot?” Raditz said, looking up at the nacelle himself. 

“Hmmm. No.” She took a second, doodled on her notepad, sketching ideas. “I can work around this internally, change the shielding patterns a little bit or something. But it’s gonna make the warp drive very unstable during takeoff and landing until you can go somewhere that it can be repaired.”

Kakarot gasped. “Will we explode?” 

“If I do my job right, no.” She rapped on the remaining hunk of hull. “But this is probably why you exploded during takeoff before.” Bulma pointed over at the shield generator. “I need to do some upgrades on that to get this to work right, but that should be it.”

The brothers Bardock nodded and they wandered to the generator together. Thankfully everything looked fine, and it was only a few minutes work to make the adjustment to compensate for the missing components. 

“That didn't take long,” said Raditz as she packed up her things. “Do you need to check anything else?”

Bulma wiped her hands off. “Depends. Is there a radio relay somewhere on the outside of the ship?”

“There's a big satellite dish on one of the towers.” Kakarot pointed to it, way up high. “Do you mean that?”

She squinted at it. “Yeah, that'll work. Can one of you get me up there?”

“Yup!” Kakarot scooped her up and off they went, Raditz following behind. 

The communications array, including the huge satellite dish, was perched at the top of the highest spire, close to the brig. The internal workings were accessible from the bridge, which she did not, had not, and probably would never have access to, no matter how well her and the Saiyans would get along. Wouldn't do to have aliens on the bridge, she'd bet. But Bulma was banking on wiring into them from here.

Unfortunately there was no good place to stand—why bother to include a platform when your entire species could fly? Nevertheless, she could relatively easily plant herself between two metal bars holding up the main dish and still get access to the panels. “If I lose my footing,” she called out to the brothers over the wind, “One of you has got to catch me, okay?”

They both gave a thumbs up. 

It didn't take too long to pry off the front of the panel, hatch swinging free on dented hinges. The series of cables inside were more of a challenge, especially since bending down when you were ten stories up was dicey at best. But eventually, Bulma had managed to tap into the main transmission cables. Fixing a set of headphones to the port, she could hear radio chatter, dozens of Saiyan voices making transmissions to people in the ground, people in other systems. Perfect, this was the wire she wanted. 

Carefully, not wanting to stop any of the normal messages coming or going, Bulma pulled out a small device, about the size of a cassette tape. Wiring it into the port took little effort, and the little device booted up with a whirr. Pulling the headphones back on, she smiled as the recording started. Just a few tweaks here and there, some frequency changes, a reroute...perfect.

As the device worked, Bulma took the time to examine the rest of the communications relay. There were a few burnt out circuits that were trivial to fix but it was otherwise in good shape,and heck, she might as well wipe some of the dust off if she had nothing else to do.

By the time she was done, she estimated that the recording had played three, maybe four times in its entirety? Putting the headphones on confirmed that it was looping. Bulma carefully unwired the cassette, double checked that normal communication was still good, and then slipped the whole thing in her pocket.

“All right,” Bulma said, waving Kakarot back over. “I'm done.”

He dutifully pulled her back down to the ground, his brother following along. 

“What was that about?” Raditz said. “No one told us you needed to fix communications.”

“Oh,” Bulma said with a wave of her hand, “Nothing, really. I was trying to send an experimental message.”

“Is that allowed?” Kakarot asked, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Well, Vegeta gave me full control of all systems, so yes?” She held out the device. “You can bring this to Tarble if you want, if you're worried.”

“I think it's fine, mechanic,” Raditz said, curling her fingers back around the cassette. “If you wanted to destroy us you would have done so by now.”

“What can I say?” Bulma said as she pocketed it. “I've gotten pretty fond of you Saiyans. Let's go look at the exhaust ports.”

* * *

The end of the day came, and Bulma trudged inside the main doors, sweaty and covered in a fine coating of dirt. Tarble, it seemed, never bothered to dust the exterior of the ship.

Walking back toward her quarters, she rounded the corner to find Prince Vegeta, trudging her way and looking absolutely filthy. In fact, she could smell him from a whole hallway away, caked with grime and some disgusting green goo. 

“Holy shit.” Her hands muffled the sound of her words as they clamped over her face.

“Greetings to you as well, Engineer.” He didn't seem at all perturbed by his state, just tired.

“What happened to you?”

Vegeta stood tall. “I liberated the oppressed Arlian masses of a dictator.”

“And you're covered in nastiness...why?”

“Nappa blew up a giant bug.”

“...aren't all the Arlians bugs?”

He didn't say anything.

Bulma cleared her throat. “Ah. Well. Cool. Um, did we get the supplies?” 

The Prince nodded. “Tarble has loaded the palladium into the main storage bay and the fuel in the tanks.” He smirked. “The Arlians were so thankful for our intervention that they decided to join the Saiyan empire.”

“Awesome,” Bulma drawled, skeptical. “Thank you. You should probably go bathe.”

Vegeta snorted. “Hmph. A Saiyan woman would appreciate her prince being doused in the blood of their enemies.”

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Well, this human woman doesn't appreciate the stench. Goodbye, Princey.”

“Tch. Goodbye.”

She walked past him, trying not to gag, as she made her way back home. 

* * *

On Namek, the Briefs family had all but exhausted their options. The burgeoning relationship between Tights and Tien had come to a screeching halt after one too many debates as to what to do, leaving the eldest Briefs daughter holed up in her writing studio pouring her heart into words and the martial artist training ferociously through his waking hours. Mrs. Briefs’ persistent optimism had finally waned, the other residents of the compound privately complaining about he lackluster and under-seasoned cafeteria food, though not daring to mention it to anyone in the family. And Dr. Briefs had finally emerged from his workshop at a reasonable time, set the papers away, and returned to his work mitigating the drought that ravaged the planet and its inhabitants. 

Two months had passed since Bulma had been abducted, and her father had come to the conclusion that she was unable to be tracked. Perhaps, he wondered as he lay awake in bed, if he had taken the time to make some scans of the ship, examine what sort of engines it used, if it had any key sources of radiation. Perhaps then things would be different. But no. Two months was too long a time. It seemed there was no hope of finding Bulma in the vastness that was space.

Thus, he was examining blueprints for one of the water pumps, hoping to mitigate the risk of earthquakes he'd discovered not long before his daughter had been taken. The pumps drilling so far beneath the surface seemed to be causing undue stress on the ground. That was what Dr. Briefs was thinking about, not the hole in his heart or the worry that had rotted away to dread, when a light appeared on a control panel near his desk. The red flash and gentle beep caught his attention, and with a glance it revealed itself to be the radio relay, having saved a recording. That in itself was strange and alarming—they were equipped for transmission between the villages, and when they'd left their previous destinations it was with explicit instructions not to use those channels unless an emergency arose. 

Flipping the switch to play the sound, he was first greeted by mostly static, but there was the telltale sound of someone speaking. Well, whichever village had sent the message must have had a great need, so he set to increasing the quality. First the frequency was too high, best to slow it down...then to increase the volume...reduce the amount of background noise...and by this point the speaker had just finished a word, so he rewound to the beginning and pressed play. 

“Hi, everyone,” the recording chirped, and his heart nearly flew out of his chest. The quality was not good, there was a persistent hiss, but the woman speaking was unmistakable. 

“Bulma!” he gasped. “My dear, is that you, are you—”

“I have to keep this short,” she continued, cutting him off. Of course, it was a _recording_. “I don't know if the transmission will send well. But I want you all to know that I'm okay.”

He slumped back in his chair, letting his daughter's voice wash over him. The relief was indescribable. He didn't know how long he sat there, not registering the words in the slightest. Eventually it started over, and this time he set to taking in the actual message.

“I'm still on Vegeta's ship,” she continued. “It's been eight weeks and two days since the Saiyans landed on Namek. By the time I send this it'll be eight weeks and three days.” So she'd sent this yesterday, by that calculation. “We're on the planet Arlia now, going to the Saiyan homeworld. I don't have coordinates, unfortunately.” Scrambling, he grabbed a piece of scrap paper and hastily scribbled that information on it. 

“The engines are mostly fixed, and I'm gonna be free to go after our next planet. It’s actually been fun, getting to mess with the systems.”

“No doubt,” he said to himself. 

“I've been talking with everyone on the ship. They're all good people. There’s actually another woman from Earth on the ship, married to one of the guards! Tights, I swear it's like a sci-fi novel. Turns out Saiyans and Humans can cross-breed, who knew. And Mom, she’d really give you a run for your money cooking! I hope you get to meet her someday. By the way Dad, did you ever wash your lab coat? Raditz keeps mentioning it to me. You made quite the impression on him.”

Perhaps it was just the immense relief, but this made Dr. Briefs smile. Those chaps he'd met when he first got on the ship were rather pleasant. (And no. He hadn't.)

“And Vegeta…” He leaned forward in his seat as his daughter hesitated, searching for a word. “I...I trust him.”

There was more to it than that, he thought. He hoped that whatever she wasn't saying was good. 

“I love you all, and miss you every single day. But know I'll be home soon. Goodbye!”

“Goodbye,” he echoed. 

The track repeated again, but this time Dr. Briefs switched it off and downloaded the whole recording to their main servers, as well as onto a flash drive. Once that business was taken care of, he was up in a flurry, star maps on every single screen. Namek was already labeled, finding and adding the Saiyan homeworld was trivial, and Arlia was, conveniently, in between the two. Assuming straight travel to the homeworld, he could be there in, oh...ten days, if he made a few minor modifications to his ship. The Saiyans must be going incredibly slow relative to what they were capable of at peak performance, though Bulma had to have made some improvements by now if he knew her at all. 

It would be easy and simple to go after her. 

Should he?

Could he track her, by analyzing the signal?

Those were questions for later, he decided. Dr. Briefs grabbed the flash drive with force, shoving it into his coat pocket. The door to his lab opened and blinded him with the permanent sunshine, but it didn't matter. He was on his way to his family, to deliver the only source of good news they'd had since Bulma had left. 

The door shut with a hiss.

It opened again a few minutes later, once the Briefs patriarch had retreated into his family quarters to exuberant celebration. A young man in orange fighting clothes and a distinct facial scar had knocked, letting himself in after no response.

“Hello?” said Yamcha, but no one was there for him. Instead, he squinted at the screens, pondering what they could possibly say. 


	23. Colds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma falls ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thanks for your patience! This was a tough chapter for me to write, and I edited and re-wrote the ending for quite some time. I'm finally happy with it, so here you are!

The Prince of Saiyans was in her childhood backyard, a full moon shining down on his shoulders. His body was shaking with some effort.

“Leave me, Bulma,” he was saying. “I'll hurt you.”

Bulma was at his side instantly, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the vibrations of his muscles as they shook. “I can help you,” she was saying, pressing into him, trying to stop the quakes, but it was futile, she could only watch as his body contorted, the muscles exploding out, as he grew to gigantic proportions, face that of an animal, clothes shredding.

They were suddenly inside, her Earth workshop materializing around them. She was sitting on her desk, pens and pencils scattered around her. Since when was she wearing a skirt? An unbuttoned blouse? His hands, again normally sized, were everywhere at once suddenly, grasping flesh, pinching, petting, so warm. The cloth bunched around her waist as he pressed her skirt up, gently threaded thin fabric down her legs, the cold air hitting her with a shock but quickly replaced. Had she done this before? It felt unbearably familiar as he laid her flat against the desk.

“Let me help,” she was gasping as he slid in. “Let me help you, Vegeta.”

“You can’t.” They were chest to chest, him covered in thick fur, his face still that of an ape. He ran a long, snake-like tongue along the side of her cheek that made her shudder. Bulma could feel herself free-falling even as he drove himself into her body. She wasn’t sure why she cried out, whether from the fear or the ecstasy, the stretch.

She looked below the desk and they were in the clouds of a red sky, the ground coming up at them fast, too fast, but his rhythm was brutal, his fingers on her hips nearly painful, but now it was her turn to quake, waves of pleasure washing through her. There was a deep rumbling in her ears—was it him? Was it the rush of air as they plunged?

“Save us,” Vegeta whispered to her, as she reached her peak, as she met the ground. The world gave way to warm and wet, her body submerged in a thick liquid, his body wrapped around her like vines, sinking, sinking...

* * *

Bulma's eyes opened slowly, the lingering sensations from the dream fading away. Instead it was replaced by the feeling that she had been hit by a tidal wave.

It was the day after they'd landed on Arlia, and as the chief engineer sat up she let out a grand sneeze, immediately drawing attention to a stuffy nose, sore chest, and sinus headache.

And what would a smart, capable woman on an alien ship do when finding herself with an ailment of unknown quality?

That's right, folks. Panic.

She bolted out of bed, the thoughts flying through her brain. An alien virus, she had picked up something horrific on Arlia, who knew what that would do to human physiology, even viruses from the same planet could be deadly without previous exposure, oh god oh god.

Bulma raced out her room and bolted for sick bay, skidding in hours before her shift was due to start. There was a room near the back that had microscopes, and as she slid up to one she scrambled to decipher the text on each. She needed something that could see viruses, something with crazy good magnification. Ah, that one! Okay, get a sample, get a sample. Rummaging around for some cotton swabs was easy enough, and for better or for worse her nose was happy to provide something to look at.

Staring at her newly prepared slide under the microscope, Bulma's heart was racing as she zoomed in on the viral particle.

“Are you kidding me?!” she said as it came into focus. She wasn't a microbiologist, but she had enough training to recognize one of the most common _Earth_ diseases on the planet. “I have the common cold?!”

Bulma threw herself back in her chair and covered her face with her hands, trying to conceive how in the world she'd managed to get sick with a cold, a virus that wasn't supposed to stay in the body for longer than a few weeks, when she'd been off her home planet for years. Yeah, sure, she remembered one of them having a cold when they got to Namek...maybe it passed through the Namekians and mutated or something and she got inoculated with it? Come to think of it, Chi-Chi had been complaining about Garban feeling a little under the weather recently too, but he'd been born in space, right? Maybe he was carrying something and it went through the ship. Maybe since he was half human something weird had happened. How did he manage to get it though? Did Saiyans carry human viruses?

Now convinced she was not going to die horrifically, Bulma trudged her way back to her room, the loss of adrenaline leaving her feeling sluggish, heavy, and sneezy. When even a lava-hot shower didn’t dissuade her symptoms, Bulma decided the best thing to do was crawl back into bed, though not before relaying a message to Tarble that she wouldn’t be making it up due to illness.

Not twenty minutes later, there was a loud banging at her door, and muffled shouts of her name. Bulma, who had just been about to doze off, dragged herself up, cursing whoever it was.

“Oh God, what are you doing here,” she grumbled when she opened her door and saw wide-eyed Prince Vegeta standing there with Kakarot and Raditz.

“You were not in Engineering,” he said.

“While it’s great that you were worried about me,” Bulma started, “I’m sick as a dog, and would like to go to sleep, because I have had a terrible morning. Thanks.”

She shut the door in his face, or tried to, because his hand shus out and it opened right up again, the traitor.

“Or come in, fine, I don’t need to get better anyway,” she groaned as he barged past her. Bulma grabbed a tissue off of her coffee table and blew her nose, tossing it into the huge biohazard that was now her wastebin.

“You need the healing pods.”

“Honestly, Vegeta, I'm fine.”

He stood taller. “I order you to use the pods, woman.”

“Okay, first of all—” and here Vegeta’s shoulders slumped, “—have you ever successfully ordered me to do anything? No.” Bulma lunged for another tissue and let loose a grand, echoing sneeze.

“I need you in Engineering.”

She crossed her arms and leaned toward him, sniffing. “Is this some sort of sick game to make me skinny dip in your healing pod, Vegeta?”

He blinked. “W-what?”

Bulma clucked her tongue. “You said you had to be naked, right?” She narrowed her eyes at him and wagged her finger. “I see through your schemes, you pervert. Just because the hottest bachelorette on the ship is sick doesn't mean you get to take advantage of her.”

“Vulgar creature!” he growled. “I am trying to help you recover!”

“Leave me alone to rest, then!” she fired back. “I was sleeping until you barged in!”

He shook his head. “You are sick. You must be monitored.”

Bulma pinched the bridge of her stuffy nose. “At maximum all I need is some soup. I just have a cold, you idiot.”

“We shall increase the temperature, then.” He waved at Raditz and Kakarot. “Adjust the thermostat.”

“That is not even remotely what I meant, Vegeta.”

“You are making less sense than usual,” the Prince said, annoyance giving way to concern. “I am bringing you to sick bay at once.” He lunged for her in one smooth movement, and Bulma felt her whole body lurch as she was thrown unceremoniously over Vegeta’s shoulder.

She shrieked. “No, no! Put me down! I was just fucking there! Put me _down_!” Bulma banged her fists on his back, as far as she could reach. “Raditz, Kakarot, help me! Please!”

“If you help her, consider yourselves tailless,” Vegeta warned.

Thus stuck, Bulma was dragged, pouting and sniffling, all the way to the sick bay, arms crossed to the best of her ability as her treacherous sinuses threatened to expel their contents. “I'm gonna blow my nose on your cape,” she grumbled.

“I will throw you out an airlock,” Vegeta said, but there was no malice in the sentence.

“You need me more than you need your cape, buddy.”

She could feel the eyeroll in his tone. “It would not be fatal. I'd put you in a shuttle pod.” He muttered the rest. "Might afford me some peace and quiet.”

“Some friend you are,” Bulma said. “I don't even know where we are in space. That'd be a death sentence.”

Her captor stopped walking for a moment. “You don't?”

“I don't have an inkling of where we are, where we have been, or where we're going except for the few planets we've been on,” she snarked. “I'm sure I could figure it out if you'd put me down and let me rest, dammit.”

“Hmph.” Vegeta continued to walk. “You complain too much.”

And Bulma would have replied, but unfortunately, she let loose a huge sneeze instead. “Oh god,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing. You're, uh, you're going to want to wash your cape.”

Vegeta made a noise like being strangled and took to the air.

* * *

The Prince of all Saiyans blew past the doors and put Bulma down on her feet as rapidly as possible, which unfortunately set her head spinning. The pressure was bad enough, the speedy movements were almost intolerable, and she dropped her face to her palms to weather the nausea.

“Bulma?” There was a slight bump against the back of her hand, and she cautiously opened her eyes to see Kakarot lightly pressing a box of tissues into her skin. _Her_ box of tissues, in fact, from her room.

“Thanks.” She shot him a weary smile and wiped her nose off. Scanning the room, she frowned at the shelves of books along the walls. The library? “I thought we were going to sick bay.”

“We are,” Vegeta said. He was in the process of incinerating his snot-covered cape with an energy beam. “After.”

Bulma cringed at the sight. Well, that's what he got for not letting her rest, right? “After what?”

The Prince, satisfied with the pile of ash that used to be cloth, waved at the brothers Bardock, who gave a nod and turned to leave, though not before Raditz patted her shoulder with a sympathetic glance. Oh boy.

Bulma hesitantly walked over to Vegeta, who was now sitting in the middle of the library next to the main table with the giant viewscreen. As she approached, he pressed some buttons and the viewscreen reshaped itself, a seamless and almost liquid transition from flat to spherical. Wow, okay, she really was gonna have to figure that one out later, because that technology was damn cool.

Without prompting the orb began to display many tiny dots of light. “Is this a star map?”

Vegeta nodded, pressing his palm against it and making as though he was spinning a globe, the stars streaking as the orb repositioned itself in space.

Bulma sniffed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “This is really cool, Vegeta, but I'm not sure why we're here.”

The Prince smirked and gently tapped the top of the orb, just as it stopped spinning.

The room plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the star maps. But what light it was! Radiating out from the center, projected all around them, golden and shimmering. She gasped and spun around to look at the spectacle. Galaxies and stars, nebulas and planets, all sparkling their way into the ceiling, the bookshelves. That was why the library was round, Bulma realized. It doubled as...as stellar cartography.

He pressed some button on the orb and a series of red dots appeared, tracing a path through space, straight lines connected together at harsh angles.

Vegeta’s face was stoic, but his tail was practically wagging back and forth. He pointed toward one bright glimmer, near the end of the red path. “This is the Saiyan Homeworld,” he said. “And this planet,” now pointing to the other end, “is Namek.”

“Oh, wow,” she whispered. A summary of the last months, all neat and tidy in the ceiling.

Vegeta grasped the projector and spun a dial, and the view shifted, stars dashing away in blazing illuminated trails as they zoomed in on a different sector, about halfway along the route. “This planet you know well.”

She wiggled her nose. “Arcose?”

He nodded with a grunt.

Bulma looked up at him, the orb casting speckles across his face. “How much of this is yours?”

With a few fast keystrokes, a dotted border appeared on the screen. All of the planets they'd travelled to plus more, so many more, were outlined in bright blue. Hundreds, at least.

She just blinked at it for a moment, sniffled, her brain trying to process. How much effort had it taken, to accomplish conquering so many worlds?

Vegeta was dragging his finger along the globe, a shadow cast across the ceiling as he pointed. As though he read her mind, he said, “Much of this used to be Lord Frieza's. Once I regained our homeworld, most of the other planets fell in line.”

Bulma looked up at the red dot that was his home planet. “And you haven't gone there since.”

He gave a curt shake of his head.

“Why?”

“Many reasons.” His tail snaked around his waist. “My people and I do not see eye to eye on numerous fronts.”

She waved her hand at him. “Is it you being in this form all the time?”

Vegeta turned toward her slightly, arms crossed. “In part.”

“I suppose you are fuzzier than the average Saiyan.” Bulma gently tapped his elbow.

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “I do not believe it is the fuzz that they object to, Engineer.”

She leaned on the table, looking up at the ceiling, at their path, at the empire. “Why did you show me this, Vegeta?” she asked.

He looked away for a moment, before boldly meeting her eyes once more. “I thought that it might lift your spirits.” She smiled warmly, and he returned it before that smile became a smirk. “And now that you know where we are in space, I can throw you out the airlock for what you did to my cape. Without guilt.”

Bulma laughed. “Sure you can.”

“Do not test me, Engineer,” he drawled, now openly grinning. “I have done worse for smaller transgressions.”

“You need me, Prince Vegeta,” she quipped. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Did I imply that I like it?” he said with a mischievous expression. “If so I am quite remorseful. I have been trying to cultivate an air of suspicion and resentment.”

Bulma clicked her tongue. “You are proving to be a terrible liar, buddy. I think—”

She stopped, a softness at her waist halting her words. As she glanced down, she saw him sliding his tail over her hips, warm and soft. His eyes still had that bright glint to them. “Oh please,” he purred. “Continue. I'd love to hear what you think.”

But she was derailed from that thought, quite thoroughly in fact. In the dark she could see flecks coming off the orb, literal stars flashing across his face, luminous and bright. He was smiling, just a hint of his teeth showing, golds and reds and blues reflecting just slightly off them, off his eyes, even off his fur. He was facing her, and there was a gentle tugging about her waist that she couldn’t ignore, one that had her shuffling a tiny bit closer to him. She couldn’t have been more than an arm’s length from him now.

Vegeta cocked his head to the side, attention sliding past her for just a moment, and she followed his gaze—he was looking back toward where their guards had left, but Kakarot and Raditz were still nowhere to be seen. And that was a little dangerous, wasn’t it? Bulma could feel her heart starting to pick up speed. Left alone, with a Prince, and a beastly one at that…but Vegeta stilled for a moment, something (perhaps hesitation) flashing across his face.

“Are you afraid of me?” he said simply.

She wasn’t scared, no. At least, not of him. So it was with an honest shake of her head that she said, “Of course not.”

His demeanor did not return to mischief, but he did continue to tug on her with his tail. It was light, but insistent. It was not demanding, only suggestive. Bulma stepped closer, eyes locked on his face, and he laid his fingers to rest against her arm. The air was still, hot as the tenuous connection between them.

“Your skin is so warm,” she whispered, needing to give voice to _something_. “You...you Saiyans must have a very high body temperature.”

“Yours feels like snow,” Vegeta replied, his thumb stroking across her elbow. “You are like a sculpture carved from ice, with your blue coloration. Is this your _cold_?”

She let out a quiet laugh. She had almost forgotten about that. “I don’t think so.”

He was still running his thumb along her, and she would almost think it was absent minded if he didn’t look so focused. “To me, you are just as fragile as ice.”

Bulma took another step closer. “I promise I won’t melt.”

He chuckled. “It isn’t the melting I think about. It’s the breaking.”

Charged air or not, Bulma scoffed at that. “I’m unbreakable.”

For a moment he looked skeptical, but that faded away into prideful. The tail around her waist tightened swiftly, and Bulma gasped as she felt her feet leave the ground, the Prince lifting her up into the air like she was weightless, arms crossing over his chest. She grasped at him, clamoring for the metal guards on his shoulders, one of the few pieces of armor he still wore, but even after she made contact she was still off-balance, half-sideways and eye-level with him for the first time. Her mind flashed back, recalling the sensation of being grasped like this, fresh from recent dreams, tight around the waist.

The words left her in a rush, “What are you doing?!”

“Proving a point.” In a flurry he'd tossed her—tossed her!—out of his tail onto the palm of one hand, her stomach swooping as it made contact with his glove. Her shriek died away when he smoothly hoisted her up and down, up and down. She could see the muscles in his arm, in his chest firing as he moved. Was he...using her as a weight? (He's not human, she reminded herself.)

“You—” she sputtered, but she couldn't find the words. Something primal shot through her, a lingering heat remaining in its wake.

He showed no signs of slowing down, hadn't even broken a sweat, but had broken out in a smile. “You're nothing to me.”

It was an unfortunate choice of words, but Bulma couldn't argue with the results. She weighed almost 60 kilos and couldn't think of anyone in her life that could bench press that amount with _one hand_. (No humans, at least.) Still, perhaps to push away the sudden influx of...of want, she whispered, “That's not a very nice thing to say, Vegeta.” God, was she really so breathless already? It was the cold, she lied to herself.

An emotion like panic seized him for a second, his eyes scanning her face, but it faded away again, this time behind something serious and intense, that laser focus. He let her down from his hand, gathering her into his arms in the process, their bodies flush to each other. “The Saiyan Prince is not nice.”

Pressed into the hard plane of his chest, those inhumanly strong arms wrapped around her waist and back, she still couldn't touch the ground, looking up into his face, god, his face was so close to hers. Could a heart stop from just an implication? From a rush of endorphins? Bulma wondered that as she murmured, “Then what is he, Vegeta?”

A moment of hesitation. His expression was opaque, but she could feel his fingers tighten on her skin. He moved, slowly, trying desperately not to spook her (or not to spook himself), and rested his chin against her shoulder. His hair brushed her cheek, surprisingly soft, she would have expected it to be coarse, but then his fur was soft too, against the bare skin of her arms, a sharp contrast to the hot marble his body seemed to be sculpted out of.

When she laid her hands gently on his upper back the Prince let out a shaky sigh, the breath tickling her neck and making her shiver. Bulma lightly traced spirals along the exposed fur, fingernails slipping through to the skin underneath, a gentle scratch. And Vegeta...melted, that was the only word she could use to describe it, his chest rumbling in obvious pleasure. Perhaps he was the one made of ice. The grip around her didn't loosen at all, but she could feel tension leaching out of his body. It reminded her of her father's cat being pet. She kept going, working her way down along the fur.

She gasped herself when Vegeta turned his head on her shoulder and she felt, unmistakably, skin pressing into her neck. His nose, she thought, yes, he was drawing in a great breath against her pulse. Smelling her. Before she had time to worry about illness and motor oil and unbrushed teeth, he let out a low rumble, a growl, or perhaps even a purr, and then there was a warmth just at that spot, a quick brush of lips over her pulse that sent Bulma’s head spinning.

It wasn’t a kiss but her reaction was unmistakable, heart beginning to beat, a quiet heat simmering beneath her skin, as though she’d been on a long run. Arousal, flooding through her, going straight to her core, a persistent throb making itself known to her. They’d never been so close to each other but the last time it was like this, in the shield generator room, she’d replayed moments from that day in her dreams, the incremental movement toward one another, except in dreams Tarble was nowhere to be found and the scene played out as it _should_ have, damn him. And now Bulma felt frozen in place even as warmth and desire washed all through her because Tarble wasn’t here, Kakarot and Raditz were gone, they were completely and truly alone and she hadn’t kissed someone in _so_ long. But Vegeta’s lips weren’t moving, warm but still, and with the blood flow she could feel the skin beating, pulsing up into his skin. She had the thought, if he’d been human, perhaps those lips would have parted—but no, he was Saiyan, wasn’t he? Different rules, different romances? And her curiosity, fundamental, ever-present, rushed back to her, seized her even though the haze.

“Vegeta,” she whispered. “Do Saiyans kiss?”

He drew his head up from her, the warmth against her neck retreating. There was a softness to his expression that was just tinged with suspicion. “Kiss?” he said, as though it were some sort of weapon she was threatening him with.

She swallowed. “So that’s just a human thing, I guess.”

“A human—” Vegeta cut himself off, jerking like a bolt of lightning had hit him, and all softness was gone, eyes wide as he looked into her face. She could see his gaze dash around to her hair, down somewhere beyond her collarbone, back up to her eyes.

All of his body heat abruptly left her, as in a rush Vegeta placed her down flat on the ground, unwound his limbs from her and stepped back in the direction of the door. He wiped his hand across the orb and the lights died, the library returning to its bright state as before. Everything came crashing. She was so cold.

“This will not—” he started, but he cut himself off again, tail thrashing. He was backing away from her, as though she were an enemy. “I am the Prince, I can’t—my people will—”

“Are you just realizing this now, Vegeta?” Bulma said, eyes starting to burn. “That we aren’t the same species? That I’m not a Saiyan?”

He brushed his fingers back through his hair, the movement yanking the skin of his face around, making him appear wild-eyed. “You look like one,” he bit out. “You look so much like one, that I…” He was still retreating. “If I return to homeworld with you on my arm, they may not crown me, Bulma.”

Her heart was sinking, not even anger within reach now. She just stared at him. “There’s something happening between us, Vegeta. I can’t deny that anymore...and neither can you.”

“It cannot.” The Prince steeled himself, resignation lining his face. “It cannot happen, Bulma. There is too much at stake.” Something dark crossed him as he stared at her. “I won’t let it happen anymore.”

She balled her fists, trying to will away the stinging in her eyes, throat and voice tight. “Is that right?” she managed.

Vegeta looked away from her then, breaking eye contact. Was it shame? Determination? “You are invaluable as an engineer, Bulma,” he said. She may have been comforted by the obvious disappointment in his tone were she not so distraught herself. “I don’t wish for you to think otherwise because we have misunderstood ourselves.”

He didn’t let her get a word in after that, perhaps sensing that she would have screamed at him had she gotten the chance. No, instead he vanished beyond the stacks of books, through the door of the library, as though he were never there in the first place, save for a small pile of ash that once was his cape.

Bulma, drew herself up to her full height, for no one, for herself. She drew in a shaky, angry breath, faltering for a moment. A headache was brewing, no doubt as the pressure behind her sinuses amplified with the impending tears, tears she would not let fall even as the urge to cry grew. No, she would not waste tears over this, no matter how livid she may be.

Violently grabbing the tissue box beside her, Bulma forced herself to walk slowly, calmly, back out of the library, past the (thankfully silent) brothers Bardock, and back to her quarters. She had no mind for anything else, now, beyond sleeping as long as she possibly could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is another Vegeta interlude. Time to get into the inner workings of that Prince's brain.


	24. Vegeta Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegeta discusses ship's business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks -- I've picked the story up for NaNoWriMo again in hopes of knocking out all the writing for it this November! Fingers crossed -- sadly its also a busy month at work. Anyway, enjoy!

The Prince was thrown onto his back with great force, and upon recovery he looked up into a visage that haunted his thoughts—a white and purple face, sleek, with a great reptilian tail thrashing about. Lord Frieza was standing before him, that insane smirk ever present on his face. The demon pointed to Vegeta's chest and fired a beam through, the pain unbearable, just as it always had been. Frieza seemed so large looming over him, more so when the Cold Tyrant began to laugh, first softly then crescendoing into maniacal.

But in a flash their positions were reversed, Vegeta feeling the rush of his transformations surge through his blood as Frieza cowered below him. The sick laughter still echoed through the air as the Saiyan Prince fired beam upon beam into his enemy's body, but the tyrant would not die, each strike as ineffectual as the last except for the screaming and the terror on his pale face.

Then the screaming changed, became higher, ever shriller in its timbre. Underneath his hands was a familiar woman, blue haired, eyes and mouth wide open with fear. She was reaching up for him, begging him to stop, tears starting to crawl down her face, pathetically small.

Her hands enclosed his arm and she was no longer screaming, instead a throaty moan escaped her as she closed her eyes and writhed. She was naked, a flush to her skin, and he couldn't help himself but to look at her, but to reach out to her. “Vegeta,” she sighed, voice airy with desire. He could _smell_ her, scent flooding the air, pulling a growl from his throat as he ran his hands up her legs, the shock of feeling skin under his fingers almost too great, but as he spread her thighs apart she was panting up at him with misty blue eyes, and instinctively he wrapped his tail around hers as he drove his hips forward and—

—Vegeta’s eyes burst open, fluid obscuring his vision but revealing the familiar sight of his healing pod, the daily alarms blaring. He slammed his hand out, wrenching the release switch with a speed betraying years of practice. With a hiss, the drain opened and the fluid levels dropped rapidly, and as soon as they were past his mouth Vegeta shook off the rebreather and head sensors. The hatch opened far too slowly, but the Prince bolted through it as soon as he could fit.

Dripping, Vegeta stood naked in sick bay, trying to reign in his racing pulse. In a daze, he groped for his cape, wrapping it about his shoulders without remembering to dry himself off.

Vegeta was no stranger to sexual inclinations. Under Frieza he hadn't had much opportunity to explore them, though once liberated he would admit to pursuing them with his newfound influence. Saiyan women may have been a rarity, but other humanoid women were plentiful and despite his past comments to his chief engineer he had, in fact, had dalliances with a choice few. However, Prince Vegeta could not remember a time when he'd had _dreams_ about any such women, Saiyan or otherwise. And that was the problem, wasn't it? Bulma wasn't Saiyan. She was exceptionally un-Saiyan. It was a grim reminder of the reality of his situation. Could he deny his inclinations toward her? No, she had said so herself, in a conversation that he had replayed over and over in his waking hours. But had he changed his mind? No. He was without choice in this regard.

The thick and damp material of his cape finally caught his attention, and growling he tossed the garment aside with little regard for its well-being, grabbing his towel instead. Rumination was a time sink.

Vegeta threw the drying cloth about his shoulders, wondering for a split second why his towel seemed to have grown—but then as though a hand had clenched his heart, the icy realization hit him that he hadn’t transformed yet. He drew in a breath at the same time as he threw his fists out, the energy coursing through him as fast as his racing thoughts, and his eyes shut as drew in a breath, and like stepping into a volcano the heat washed over him, the pain of muscles familiar, comforting as his muscles reshaped themselves, the usual electricity through his teeth drowning out the what if, what if, and when he released the breath he was taller, the towel was the right size, and he was safe.

The lethargy, though, was back.

The Prince straightened his spine in a futile attempt to make the power of the transformation energize him, but in truth he knew it was empty posturing. Yet the tingling at the tips of his fingers, the need to maintain vigilance, at least that subsided. Still, he was reminded that his decades-old routine was being perturbed by her—not spending his mid-day hours in the pods for the last two weeks was wearing on him. He knew this. And yet, betraying his weakness, he could not refuse her invitations. At first, of course, he had Tarble to blame—addressing his brother's claim that she required companionship—but she had drawn him in on her own merit over the weeks. Not to mention, of course, the food itself, her human creations being surprisingly flavorful. Vegeta occasionally wondered if she had bewitched him, but no. If Bulma found out the effect that missing those resting hours was having on him, he knew she would stop. Probably chastise him for it, even. Gods, imagine if she realized he did not sleep anymore. That is, if she were still speaking to him. He hasn't seen heads or tails of her since their encounter, Tarble reporting that she'd thrown herself headlong into her work.

Bulma was not Saiyan, despite her temper. She was a creature of contradictions—soft but tough, biting but gentle, caring but disobedient. Intelligent but naive to the dangers of the universe. Beautiful in a way that he couldn’t deny, captivating of his attention, but _not Saiyan_. And that was another problem, of course. Vegeta pictured the scenario, them landing on homeworld, the announcement of his relationship to an off-worlder. There would be challenges to his rule, the elite maintaining he wasn’t fit to rule the empire, the concerns with weak-willed offspring. A consort alone, perhaps that was acceptable, but what if there were children? An image of his parents, disapproving, came unbidden to him, and he scowled as he shook that thought away.

Then there was the matter of Bulma herself. He admitted he’d wondered if he had misread her actions and intentions the last few weeks. There were now numerous instances where she would touch him on the arm, or stroke his fur, press her lips to his cheek in a very strange way that still lit a fire through his blood that only the pods seemed to be able to calm. Bulma had yet to shrink away from him, to shudder at his own touches, save those few times when they’d been interrupted or she’d been so incensed she would lay into him instead. Now she had all but confirmed she was going through similar ruminations. Another thought came to him—how would Bulma think about his time with other women? He knew she had a former mate, or whatever humans had that passed for that, but that didn’t much bother him. Was it different for humans? Would she even care? A useless thought.

It would not work. He had to continually tell himself that. Even with chemistry, with inclinations, with fiery personalities, the fact of the matter was that there were circumstances beyond his control that he could not let go of. And a Saiyan Prince did not just hope, like a helpless child. He took action, and accepted responsibility. He had accepted so little responsibility over the years, for his people, for his ship, for his crown. It was time to fix that, and whatever he had with Bulma would need to be a forgotten casualty.

Vegeta leaned against the side of the pod as he pondered. He’d come to realize over the last few weeks—since Bulma had returned from Arcose, really—that he was treating her as more than just a chief engineer. Dinners, serving her food from his own plates. Lunches, with her instead of in the pods. Gods, he was still spending the entirety of the day with her in the guise of translating—he hadn’t even opened a manual in so long. But those few and far between moments, when he got the chance to touch her, to hold her, or even just to speak to her and see that fire light up in her eyes...that was worth it, to him. He didn’t pretend as though he wasn’t attracted to Bulma, it was foolhardy. The other actions, though...he was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t _actually_ courting her. Which was also foolhardy, as the events of that fateful day made clear. His mind may have been trying to forget, but his hands remembered the feel of her, pressing down into his palm as he hoisted her up, a ritualized display of strength, as though he was on the path to mating her already.

Damn her. Damn himself.

A slight breeze through the air made Vegeta realize suddenly that he was still standing in nothing but a towel. How long had he been standing here, thinking useless thoughts about that woman, thinking himself in circles? He didn’t know, but his alarm had gone off some time ago and thus he was due to attend a meeting with Tarble. Begrudgingly, Prince Vegeta gathered up his clothing and the discarded cape and drew them on. Ugh, how he hated these morning meetings. Still, it was better to show up on time than to have his brother track him down, the busy body. He’d never hear the end of it.

By the time Vegeta had managed to dress completely, he had almost removed all thought of Bulma from his mind. Only a soft stirring of his dream remained, and would remain with him for the rest of the day.

* * *

“A gala.”

“Yes, my liege, a gala.”

Vegeta sat on his throne, his brother facing him with a far-too-resolute expression on his face. “You must be out of your mind.”

“On the contrary, sire, I think this is the most clear headed idea I have had in decades.”

He set his jaw. “We are not hosting a _gala_.”

“And why not?” Tarble challenged, tail thrashing. He seemed particularly cross today, had been for the past week or so. “What could your reasoning possibly be, brother?”

As _I don't want to_ seemed like a poor reason, Vegeta went with his second best excuse. “Princes do not throw galas. Kings and queens do.”

“You may be forgetting, _Prince_ Vegeta, that you are due to be crowned king at the end of the festival, in a few short weeks! I hardly see why that distinction matters.”

“Tch. We've never had a gala here before, I don't see why I should start now.”

“Oh?” Tarble raised an eyebrow. “And how do you propose we host a good first gala if we've not even attended one in a decade, hm? Especially since we missed the last Festival, or have you forgotten how _that_ went over? Can you honestly tell me, brother, that you're fully prepared for the pomp and circumstance of homeworld as the king?”

He could not honestly tell him that. “I don't want to,” Vegeta finally said, exhausted of other options.

“I borrow from Lady Bulma in saying that is bullshit, my liege.” Tarble strode closer to his brother on the throne, head high and eyes narrow. “Correct me if needed, but I thought my Prince was finally beginning to consider his future on the throne. Making _sacrifices_.”

Vegeta grimaced, teeth clenching together. Ah, Tarble had him. It was no secret that his brother had heard of his rebuff toward Bulma and had not reacted kindly. Vegeta could protest, but then, was that not the goal, really? A fleeting yearning for his chief engineer came to him but the Prince violently pushed it away. Everything he was doing was for the throne, now. He had a legacy to live up to, to exceed. If there was anyone he should be courting, it was his people, the elites. Not...aliens.

Still. He had to wonder. Why the gala now? Were there no other skills to practice before returning to their homeworld? Ones more important than...dances and frivolity? The suspicion towards his younger brother’s motives was hard to dissuade.

“Fine,” Vegeta conceded, not wanting to spend another second on the topic. “Host the gala, Tarble.”

Perhaps not wishing to press his luck, Tarble said nothing as he nodded, saluted, and marched his way out of the ballroom.

The Prince slumped in the throne for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, already craving the solace of the pods. It was not even an hour into his day. Damn it all.

“My liege,” a gruff voice said, interrupting his ruminations. Standing straight and tall before him was Nappa, looking serious. Like he used to look, when Vegeta was a child trying to run away from him and all the associated responsibilities.

Vegeta forced himself to sit up for his former aide. “I was not expecting you,” he said simply.

“Yes, well,” the older Saiyan replied, “I bring news from homeworld and from the crew.”

He glowered. Not good news, then. “Speak. Homeworld first.”

Nappa gave a quick and crisp salute, betraying his many years as a warrior in the Saiyan army, before relaxing. “The elite are concerned about your bloodline, Prince Vegeta. They have asked when you will produce an heir.”

A shard of ice lanced through his heart. “What prompts this?” Vegeta spat. Had they found out about...

But Nappa shook his head, as though sensing this. “They don’t know about Lady Bulma, sire. They are impatient.”

The fear subsided, he exhaled sharply. “They want to see if my reign will last.” To take over afterward. A play for power.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t rule it out.” He smiled. “Seems more likely they want to marry you to one of their daughters.”

Vegeta scoffed. Also a play for power, and one that seemed nearly impossible.

“That is all the news from homeworld, sire.”

“What about the crew?” he asked.

Nappa shifted his weight slightly. “May I speak freely?” Vegeta nodded. “Productivity has plummeted this week, Vegeta. Because of you and the engineer.”

Vegeta narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

His third-in-command was blunt. “They expected you to produce an heir with _her_. Word of your rejection traveled fast—” and here Vegeta had the gall to feel _guilt_ , what treason was this, ”—and now they’re fighting over whether she is mateable.”

The Prince grasped the arms of his throne very tightly, rage already close to boiling. “Is that so,” he spat. The common soldiers, sizing Bulma up like a piece of meat? Disgusting.

Nappa didn’t seem to have the good sense to be phased, plowing on with no hesitation. “The crew thinks it’s ridiculous that you rejected her at all, except for a few of the elite soldiers.” An eye roll. “Not enough women around anyway, Saiyan or otherwise. We could use more like her. Too bad homeworld elites don’t feel the same way. A waste.”

Vegeta stood, blood thrumming, simmering, and now Nappa shut up. “Well?” he drawled, voice dripping venom. “Do you feel the same way? That it’s ridiculous?”

The older Saiyan was visibly alarmed, but frowned nonetheless. “Still speaking freely, sire, yes. I agree with the crew. Tarble does as well.”

The Prince grasped the arms of the throne so hard, now, that it aggravated previous cracks and damage, the dark wood squeaking. He should have shot Nappa for this—but, he had given permission to speak freely, and that was dishonorable, if tempting. It seemed that his mind had been drifting toward dishonorable, if tempting, for weeks now. A flashback, to months before, a shrill voice, _you should learn to control your temper!_

She had invaded his thoughts. Perhaps another reason to have rejected her.

Nonetheless, he calmed his grasp on the chair. “What do you propose I do, then, Nappa?”

Nappa shrugged. “If I were you, my Prince, I would say, don't give a damn about the elites and what they think. You're our Prince, and the strongest in the universe. Can't you do whatever you want, sire?”

Gods, he sounded like Bulma. Always finding simplistic political solutions. Had she infected everyone on the ship? But Nappa was not one to offer ridiculous solutions when it came to homeworld. Not usually. Perhaps that meant something.

“Off the record, sire,” Nappa concluded, “I think you should keep that woman around. She's incredibly useful.”

At least they could agree in that without guilt and conflict. Vegeta nodded with approval. “You're dismissed.”

His third in command gave a salute, then marched out the main doors. Once he was completely gone, the Prince slumped again. Thinking through useless emotions was a tiring affair.

Vegeta had gotten one breath in before the doors to the hall opened with a grating rumble. Far down the hall, his chief engineer elbowed her way past Raditz with a wild look in her eyes, hair flying away from her as though she'd been shocked. He was instantly on edge, remembering their last interaction, remembering her sadness, remembering how they'd not seen each other nor spoken since it had happened.

But the mad grin ruled out any pain or foul play, despite her unkempt appearance, clothing smeared with oil and unknown other things.

“Vegeta!” she was shrieking, and he could practically taste her excitement. He flew to his feet as she ran down the long hall, a piece of paper flapping in her hands.

“What is it?” he said, and his voice was more concerned than he wished. Where had his gruff exterior gone, his walls?

She skidded to a stop on the tapestry leading to his throne, the fabric rumpling under her feet. “I did it, Vegeta!” She shook the paper violently. “It took the whole week, but I did it!”

He could only blink. “What?!”

“The pods!” She was right next to this throne now, reaching out and grabbing his hand (and he was ruined with this, not having touched a single living creature all week, the contact was electrified) so that she could place her paper in his fingers. It was covered in furious scribbles in Standard, her native tongue, and Saiyan. He had no idea what they said. “I fixed them, I fixed them all! No, not just that,” and she slashed through the air with her hands, crazed and grinning. “I improved them, Vegeta! They're going to work so much better—”

“Slow down!” Vegeta shouted, and his tail shot out to grasp her hands of its own volition. Bulma closed her mouth quickly but the excitement did not leave her. “What are you saying?”

Bulma was practically vibrating in his grip. “I went in to put the casings back on, but then I saw that the two were broken, so I thought I should fix them up, and I ran some diagnostics and fixed the hardware, but you know what Vegeta? Why not make the fluid better too? So I thought, I've got one senzu bean, I bet I can sequence its genome and put some of that DNA in the fluid, and I did that, and now the pods synthesize that too and you shouldn't have to spend as long in the pods anymore!”

Vegeta, Prince of all Saiyans, was struck dumb by this.

He should distrust her, after their fight. He should be expecting foul play, that she would go and destroy his pods, for revenge. Yet none of those thoughts seemed reasonable to him, in this moment. She had, without question, after he had soundly rejected her, taken it upon herself not just to return the pods to their original state, but better them. She stood before him, bright eyed, captured in the grip of his tail and genuinely happy in a way he could not comprehend. Her eyes were so blue now, deep like the oceans of her home planet, hair the same color—perhaps she was a siren, born of soothing cool water, come here to destroy him with her unfathomable beauty. Yet she was so much more than that. Her spirit was the brightest, most formidable he had ever encountered. And here she had taken that brilliant mind of hers, a mind that would give any great leader a run for their money, and applied it for no other reason than to be _kind_. What creature—what person—had he ever known what would do such a thing? It had been decades at best. Perhaps longer.

And as Vegeta witnessed himself admiring the Lady Bulma Briefs, as he caught himself ignoring his own earlier resolutions and convictions, he stumbled with the weight of one, singular realization. It crashed into him, like a tsunami wave on an alien planet, knocking the breath out of him.

He was in love with her.

It was a terrifying thought, one that he would never have admitted to himself if he were not caught blindsided by it. He was the Prince, and relationships were liabilities. And yet, he was here, and the truth of it was irrefutable. Gods, how could he deny it ever again? How could he have denied it at all before now? The weeks of discussions and wit, the arguments and counterarguments, her softness crumbling away at his hardness. He had been desperate to shoot down claims that he was courting her, that he could have any feelings for her, not just as an alien but as a woman in general. In the guise of protecting his people, of respecting his traditions, of being _honorable_. And now it was futile. He could not ever take this away.

Vegeta's tail unwound as he stood up from the throne, and Bulma took a confused step back to get out of his way. Then, he grasped her hands with his own, marveling a moment at how wide her eyes became. He could not apologize for his actions and errors, the Saiyan Prince would not, but he could attempt to make amends.

“Bulma,” he murmured, and her name rolled off his tongue with ease now.

“Oh,” she said, caught off guard. “Yes?”

“Tarble has suggested we throw a...a gala for the crew. Before arriving in homeworld. I wish you to accompany me, if you are willing.”

She blinked, baffled for a moment. Then she was confused, perhaps suspicious. He would not begrudge her that. “Did something happen since I saw you last?”

“Yes,” Vegeta said bluntly.

“Is this just because I fixed your pods?”

“No.”

And she looked confused once more. But this time, the confusion slowly melted away. A smile returned to her face, not crazed but gentle. She was so, so trusting of him, in this moment.

Yet she could not resist a barb, it seemed. “And what about your people? Have you turned your back on them?”

Vegeta frowned. What to say, in response? Perhaps it was just best to be honest. “I don't know. I don't know what this means for my people. All I know is I want to be on your arm when we attend Tarble's affair.”

She shook her head. Was she surprised? Baffled? It didn't matter. “I would love to, Prince Vegeta.” And she squeezed his hands with her own.

He didn't think, he just gathered her into his embrace, pressing her to him. She squeaked and laughed and sighed in quick succession, and then her whole self leaned into his body, as though it didn't want to be let go. And he was more than willing to oblige.

* * *

Tien was shocked out of a meditative trance by a sharp rapping at the door to his quarters, three eyes blinking open and shattering the calm awareness he'd been painstakingly cultivating. The frown filled his face with ease, as though it had carved out a home for itself over the last few months. A glance to the clock on the wall of his sparsely furnished living room indicated that it was far too early for Chiaotzu to have returned from his wandering around the compound. So, someone must have need of him for some other reason. Just outside the door, he could hear frantic whispers, heated even? Great.

Throwing on his nearby shirt, the warrior slid the door open with the press of a button. The light streamed in, revealing an unlikely pair, each of which now flinched back, caught in their argument.

“Tights. Puar.” Tien crossed his arms. “I wasn't expecting you.”

The little cat skipped the pleasantries. “Tien, Yamcha hasn’t come home in two days.”

His frown deepened. “And I suppose you want me to do something about that?”

“You’d better,” Tights grumbled, arms also crossed and eyes narrowed. “He won’t leave.”

“Honestly, I don’t see why any of this is my problem,” he said bluntly. As much as he was fond of Tights...or used to be, at any rate, given the downturn their relationship had taken...he wasn’t Yamcha’s keeper.

“Please, Tien!” Puar shouted, “We’ve tried to get him to leave Dr. Briefs’ lab, but he’s been there non-stop!”

“First he would just come in for a couple hours a day, which was bad enough,” Tights added. “Now he’s been in there at least 24 hours, holed up and won’t let anyone else in! My dad had to rewire the door locks.”

Tien let out a disappointed breath of air. If it had gotten to this point, he assumed reason wouldn't work. “You need him dragged out.”

Puar and Tights both nodded.

“Dammit,” he cursed. “Fine. I'll go get him.”

He strode out, brushing past them with his shoulders and pointedly ignoring the sudden and desperate urge for human contact. Ignoring still the longing look that flashed across Tights’ face. No one followed him.

* * *

When Tien arrived at the door to Dr. Briefs’ laboratory, he found the old man himself standing outside looking as collected as ever. “Good afternoon,” the doctor greeted, as though it were a normal day. “I’m sorry it is not under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Where's Yamcha?” Tien asked. He had no time nor desire for pleasantries.

But Dr. Briefs didn't seem perturbed by this. “I am afraid that he's inside.” A slight sigh. “Has my daughter gotten you caught up on the situation?”

Tien nodded curtly. “Are you still locked out?”

“No. I'm starting here now because, quite frankly, I don't know what to do.” He shook his head. “He's been in there over a day, just listening over and over. Digging through everything.”

“Listening to what?” Tien asked, a whole host of unfortunate ideas coming to mind.

And here, did the doctor briefly look...guilty? Unclear. “Bulma sent us a message, that we picked up a day and a half ago.”

The warrior blinked, shocked. That was not what he'd suspected in the slightest. “Oh.” Then reason, and annoyance, came back to him. “And you didn't tell any of us?”

Definitely that was guilt now on Dr. Briefs’ face. “When I received it, I couldn't think of anything else but my family. We were celebrating her survival. When I returned to the lab to share the recording, Yamcha was already in there.”

And at that point, Tien thought, things would have been more important than sharing. All right. He was still slighted, but the logic was clear. “Let's get him out,” he said simply.

Dr. Briefs flipped open a panel near the door and fiddled with something inside, hand digging through wires. It popped open with a grating hiss, none of the usual smooth hydraulic grace.

A loud noise came from the speakers, and it took Tien a few seconds to realize that it was someone speaking. A woman. No, Bulma, she was the source of the voice. Presumably that was the recording Briefs had mentioned. Tien let himself be happy, just for a moment, that she was safe. After all, she was his friend. But then he returned to the plight of another friend.

In the back of the room, Yamcha looked a mess. His hair had a greasy sheen, betraying missed showers, and it was in disarray. Knotted. Snarled. The former bandit didn’t look up from his work, staring at a screen displaying stars and dotted lines.

They walked towards him, Dr. Briefs leading the way. When they drew close enough, Yamcha seemed to sense them, and whirled around. His eyes were lined with bags, the whites reddened. Hadn't been sleeping either, it appeared. Once he spotted the old man, those eyes narrowed. “I see you’re back,” he grumbled, switching the recording off.

“Hello again, Yamcha,” Dr. Briefs replied.

Tien crossed his arms. “What are you doing in here?” As he spoke, it seemed that Yamcha realized he was there for the first time.

“How are you not livid, Tien?” Yamcha said, voice rising in volume as he spoke. “None of them told us. None of them told me! Bulma is safe, and we've all been catatonic over her for months, and once he finds out about it? Nothing.”

“I have already apologized to you, Yamcha,” Dr. Briefs replied. “Multiple times. Tien, I owe you an apology as well. I was overwhelmed with the news that all I could think about was my family.” He looked almost sad. “I never intended to hide it from you.”

“Yeah?” Yamcha sneered. “Did you intend to hide it from _me_?”

Dr. Briefs made a huffing noise, but didn't answer.

“It doesn't matter anymore,” Yamcha continued. “I’ve figured everything out now. I know where Bulma is, and that’s what matters.”

“That’s crazy, Yamcha,” Tien said. “She’s somewhere in space. Just because she’s safe—”

Yamcha angrily flipped a switch, and Bulma’s voice rang out, full of static. _By the time I send this it'll be eight weeks and three days. We're on the planet Arlia now, going to the Saiyan homeworld._ As her recording spoke, he pointed up at the screen, in which three planets were circled. One was already labeled as Namek. “What do you think these dots are, Tien?”

 _I'm gonna be free to go after our next planet_ , Bulma was saying in the background.

“It’s bad enough that she didn’t mention any of us in the recording,” Yamcha said, sounding both angry and deflated. Tien briefly wondered what sort of thoughts he must have played in his head, on repeat, the past day. “Just her family. Let alone us, her oldest friends. More than friends.” Tien resisted the urge to hit Yamcha upside the head, but he didn’t seem to notice his restraint, plowing on. “That’s not important now, though.” Yamcha shoved his thumb into his chest, practically inflating, wild eyed. “I’m going to go get her.”

Tien just blinked. “That’s stupid, Yamcha. She’s clearly on her way back.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Briefs said after a heavy sigh. “I estimate she’ll be back in under a month.”

“That’s not good enough!” Yamcha was yelling, now. Whatever patience he’d seemingly had was gone. “We need to mount a rescue mission and get her here. And you!” Here he pointed at Dr. Briefs. “You need to outfit one of the spaceships we came here with, so we can get her!”

Tien had never seen the old man so close to losing his temper. “My boy, there’s no need for that. She is on her way back. Do you listen?”

“I don’t care about that,” Yamcha said—and now Tien was convinced he’d lost it. “Before she left she said a lot of things to me, and now I have to get her back. Literally, and figuratively.”

“You’re being unreasonable, Yamcha,” Tien said. He stepped closer to his friend, flashing back months ago. _I just want him to leave me alone, and he won't. He hasn't for years._ It didn’t help that he was hearing her voice now. In fact, the warrior leaned over and shut the recording back off.

A look of betrayal fluttered across Yamcha’s face. “I would have thought you’d understand,” he started, voice low. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would back me up on this one. You know how much I need her here.”

The frustration was mounting. Tien threw his arm out, pointed toward Dr. Briefs. “Do you think her family doesn’t need her here too? Because they don’t seem on board with this plan of yours!” (Behind him, out of sight, the doctor winced guiltily.)

Yamcha, to his credit, was silent for a while. In fact, he just turned around and looked at the screens again, long enough so that Tien had begun deciding how he was going to drag Yamcha out of the labs.

But the quiet didn’t last forever. Yamcha slowly rounded on Dr. Briefs, far too serious an expression on his face. “Can you track the Saiyan ship?”

The old man paused for a moment—perhaps it could be blamed on him contemplating, if he didn’t look so hesitant. “Yes,” he said finally, as though he’d been thinking about this himself. “I think we could hone in on the ship, if the signal matches the one in the recording. We could find her in real time.”

Yamcha glowered. “You’re going to do that. Right?” Something about his tone made Tien’s stomach drop.

Another pause from Dr. Briefs, this time more sullen. “I...believe so. I was considering the option. But it seems the decision has been made for me.”

“Good.” Yamcha seemed to relax, relax in the way that a snake uncoils after catching a mouse. He even smiled a bit. “Good. I’m glad we’re finally starting to see eye to eye.”

Tien stepped toward him one last time. “You need to leave now.”

But Yamcha just nodded. “I think so. I’d better see what Puar is doing.” And then, as if the whole thing was already forgotten, he strode out. The unceasing sun streamed in, and then it was quiet again.

Dr. Briefs sat in a desk chair and turned off the screens. For a moment, the after-image of the dots on stars lingered. Then he sighed. “I worry about that man.”

Tien crossed his arms. “I told Bulma she should have let him down easy.”

“As though this is her fault,” the old man snapped, the first time Tien had ever heard such a thing from him. That made his stomach drop again, this time with guilt.

“It’s not,” he admitted.

He spun around in his chair. “Please leave,” he said simply. “I would like my lab back to myself.”

There was nothing to say after that. Tien just walked out, into the daylight, toward the quarters that he called his home. The optimistic part of him, a part he did not listen to frequently, was reminding him that he was okay. As for the rest...the rest of him had a bad feeling.


	25. Choreography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a royal gala.

The chief engineer of Vegeta’s ship found herself once more on the ground of the ballroom, her rump sore from falling on it over and over. The Prince himself had vacated the area such that his chief of staff could accomplish two important and near-impossible tasks: decorate the hall for a gala, and teach their resident human one of the most important skills at such an event.

“Bulma. You must keep your feet planted more to dance.”

“I know how to dance!” She pushed a lock of hair, glued with sweat to her forehead, back behind her ear. “This is not dancing!”

“It is a statement of trust and synchrony,” he said, approaching her and offering a hand, which she took in order to get to her feet. “Danced between the closest of friends, partners, lovers. It mimics battle.”

“In what way do you think I'm capable of battling with someone?” Bulma griped.

“Well, to begin with,” Tarble drawled, sarcasm obvious, “I've seen the way you return volleys from my brother. Forgive me for assuming that you were capable. Now, do it again.”

She glared at him as he held out his arm to reset, the music restarting with an annoying chime.

It was a traditional Saiyan dance she was learning, one that was only performed at royal galas, and all able bodied adults were expected to participate. Seeing as there were only two women on the ship, herself included, Bulma had been strongly suggested to learn the steps. (She'd asked Chi-Chi about it, but apparently Raditz had taught it to her and his brother once they'd learned the gala was happening. “I didn't have any issues with it,” she'd said. Of course not. Chi-Chi was a fighter.) The gala itself was still weeks off, only two days before their arrival on the Saiyan homeworld, but now Bulma had to do _this_ every day to get caught up on Saiyan dance culture, or whatever nonsense Tarble had said earlier. Honestly, she would rather be in engineering.

The steps were simple in principle, but difficult in execution: face one's partner, rapidly step past them such that you were back to back, squat (she'd been told that there was a tail curl that, of course, she couldn't pull off), quarter turn and shuffle to the left (her left, his right). Then you were faced with another couple, and there was a fake fight. This was the step she couldn't get right once they were really moving fast. One partner grabbed the other (in this case Bulma) and hefted them up, with multiple kicks. Then the first partner whirled around with a choreographed punch, before the partners pressed their backs into each other for a moment. After that, it repeated, the dancers moving in a circle. It was sort of like a line dance, really, except that it was more like a battle and Bulma wasn't coordinated enough for this, especially when the music gradually increased in speed.

She found herself on the ground for the hundredth time, and instead of getting up gracefully she pounded her hands against the floor and shrieked her frustrations away, while her hapless instructor just chuckled.

“You know,” he said with a grin, “Prince Vegeta is quite a good dancer. I’m afraid at this pace you’ll be unable to keep up.”

“I’m going to keep my foot up your ass if you’re not careful!” she shouted, scrambling up and leveling her most ferocious glare at him. The bastard barely even flinched, holding out a hand to reset. “How many times are we going to do this?!”

“Until you get it right, Lady Bulma. Come on, now. One two. One two.”

After four or so hours of dance practice (or more accurately, battle simulation training), Tarble declared that she’d had enough for the afternoon, despite her seeming lack of progress. Bulma, in a _stellar_ mood, stomped her way down the hall.

There were only two saving graces for the afternoon: one was that she got to have dinner with Kakarot, Chi-Chi, Raditz, and Garban, rather than sitting alone in her quarters, and the other was that just this morning, she had finally, _finally_ , finished all of the repairs to the warp engine.

In fact, Bulma was convinced that’s how she got roped into having to learn the dance moves. She’d spent two days just confirming that her repairs were up to snuff, running every diagnostic she could think of, and then once it had passed with flying colors, she’d reported to Tarble. He had been ecstatic, yes, that it was complete...but there’d also been something more hesitant to him. She suspected that it was because he knew it meant her time on the ship was coming to a close. Lo and behold, as soon as she said she was done with her one major task, she had to prepare for a gala, all her other afternoon plans shot for the time being.

While the chief engineer considered that perhaps she could go back to work after dance practice, the ache in her arms and legs said otherwise. So that was out. No, Bulma just headed for Chi-Chi’s dinner instead.

The door to their quarters opened swiftly after Bulma rang the doorbell, and as she’d gotten used to over the past months, Garban flew into her arms in greeting. “Bulma! Hi Bulma!” he shouted, tail winding around the top of her elbow.

“Hey little guy!” She walked in, nodding to Kakarot and Raditz who were on the couch. “Hi boys!”

Chi-Chi poked her head out of the kitchen. “Speak of the Devil!” she said, which was, honestly, not what Bulma wanted to hear right as she walked in the door. “We were just talking about you.”

“Oh boy.” She set little Garban down on the ground, where he immediately zoomed to tackle his uncle and start a play fight. “Hopefully it’s good.”

“If I had known the cute Saiyan boy you were talking about was Prince Vegeta,” Chi-Chi scolded, “I would have given you very different advice a few weeks ago!”

Bulma poked her own head into the kitchen, ignoring the wonderful smells of cooking meat. “In my defense, I was in denial.”

The other woman just laughed.

From the couch, Kakarot chimed in. “We heard that he asked you to the _gala_.” This last word he stretched out in a teasing manner before giggling.

“Nappa has been talking our ears off since,” Raditz grumbled, effortlessly dodging his nephew’s vicious attacks.

“ _Nappa_ has?” Chi-Chi asked, echoing Bulma's own sentiment.

“He’s been talking about repopulating for years,” Raditz continued. “Wants us to go off and recruit as many females as we can.” Raditz nodded toward Bulma.” And don’t get me started on you.”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

As though it was the most obvious thing, Raditz snorted, pushing Garban into his father. “Well, he wants you and the Prince to get together, that’s for sure.”

“Raditz,” Kakarot chastised, flinging his excited son around, “Don't be boring. Everyone is talking about that.”

“True,” Chi-Chi added from the kitchen.

“What?” Bulma crossed her arms. “Why?”

Raditz shrugged. “He thinks you two would fit together nicely, I guess. Or you’d make a good queen.” He must have seen the disbelief on her face, because he frowned. “You’re plenty capable, Bulma. Good engineer. Smell a lot nicer than your father when he was on board. I guess you won Nappa over.”

“Plus Vegeta _likes_ you,” Kakarot added, sing-song again. “Whenever you’re not around he gets all mopey. And sad.”

Bulma pictured Prince Vegeta missing her and had to chuckle at the spectacle. “Huh,” she managed once she’d recovered. “Well. I guess I am pretty awesome.”

“I like you too, Miss Lady Bulma!” Garban chimed in from his father’s lap. Kakarot ruffled his hair with obvious affection.

“Aww, thanks kiddo!” She beamed at him. “You're pretty awesome yourself!”

“Watch out, Prince Vegeta,” teased Chi-Chi, who walked out of the kitchen with a big vat of stew. “My charming boy is going to steal your beau away.”

That pulled laughter out of everybody, with the exception of poor Garban, who just looked confused, if happy, about the whole affair.

The conversation lulled, as it typically did, while they all ate, letting Bulma soak in everyone’s words and thoughts. After a marvelous dessert Chi-Chi had whipped up (a _chocolate_ cake, delicious despite the synthesized flavor), little Garban was asleep on the floor, and the adults lounged upon the couch, digesting. Kakarot and Chi-Chi had drifted off to a nap, snuggled up on one end of the couch. It was a sickeningly adorable sight.

Bulma turned to Raditz, who looked surprisingly awake given the mountain of food he'd consumed. Actually, he looked a bit pensive, as though he was turning something thorny over in his head. She had to wonder what.

She sat up straight, catching his attention. “Penny for your thoughts, Raditz?”

He furrowed his brow, confused. Another idiom the Saiyans lacked. Bulma tapped her temple with her finger, and that seemed to aid his understanding. Raditz pursed his lips, eyes drifting over the sleeping couple beside him.

Finally he spoke in a clipped tone. “I do not want to attend the gala.”

“What?” She sat up a bit. “Why?”

The Saiyan scoffed. “All of the pomp and circumstance. Ridiculous things. Peppy music. Stuffy formalities.” He waggled his fingers in her direction. “Not to stop you from going, go ahead. But I want no part of it.”

She softened, smiling at him. “Oh come on, Raditz. What could be so bad? I think it sounds fun.”

Raditz slumped, an even more sour expression on his face. “Everyone dancing around, all the traditional footwork. Lovers making eyes at each other the whole time.”

“There can't be much of that,” she said flippantly. “There's only two women aboard.”

Another scoff. “Are all lovers male-female pairs on _your_ planet?”

She shut her mouth. Touche.

“If I ever go to a gala again it’ll be too soon,” he grumbled. “At least the last time Sava was still—”

“Who?” Bulma interrupted.

Raditz stopped short, as though he were a record whose needle had jumped the track. His eyes jumped to Bulma, then his sleeping family members, before he shot to his feet. The sour expression was gone, replaced by one of near-panic. “I’m leaving,” he bit out, practically running toward the door.

“Are you okay?” Bulma called after him, but he didn’t even slow. No, the doors opened and shut before she could blink, and Raditz was gone.

The volume of her question roused Chi-Chi, though the other two still snored on. She blinked the grogginess from her eyes and then sat up straight. “Oh goodness, how long was I asleep?” Then, Chi-Chi’s gaze settled on the spot where her brother-in-law had just been sitting. “Did Raditz go home?”

Bulma shrugged. “We were talking about the gala, he mentioned someone named Sava, and then he just bolted.”

“Oh dear.” She rubbed her hand over her temples for a moment. “That’s no good.”

She thought for a moment, about what she knew about Raditz. Vegeta’s voice, Tarble’s, echoing in memory from some weeks ago. “Was Sava...his mate?”

A sigh and a glum nod. “Sava was killed in Frieza’s attack on the Saiyan homeworld. I never knew Raditz until after that...but we don’t talk about it.” She frowned at Kakarot and Garban. “He still struggles with it, I think.”

Bulma turned to look at the door, where he’d walked through. “How long has it been?”

“Fourteen, fifteen years or so?” Another sigh. “Long enough. I don’t know very much, Bulma, I’m sorry.” Chi-Chi stood, scooping her son into her arms and walking toward his room. “I’m surprised he told you about it at all.”

Mostly to herself, Bulma muttered, “I don’t think he meant to.” Saiyans in general seemed very loathe to talk about personal feelings or problems. At least, Vegeta and Raditz did. Kakarot seemed more human than Saiyan, and she had the feeling that Tarble was a bit more open about such things than the rest of his crew. Certainly Nappa wasn’t open with her. Regardless, she felt bad for Raditz—like she should have had the foresight not to bring up the gala at all, which was absurd.

From the other room, she could hear Chi-Chi’s voice softly cooing to her son, _it’s time for bed, sweet dreams my sweet pea_. The little half-Saiyan could be heard sleepily protesting, _no mama, I’m still awake_ , but even Bulma who hadn’t been around kids much knew it was half-hearted at best.

What time was it? Ugh, the clock read half-past-bedtime. Kakarot, still snoring, had the right idea apparently. Once Chi-Chi came back out to the living room, stifling a yawn herself, Bulma hopped up. “I think I’m gonna head out.” She’d be willing to bet that Tarble was going to whisk her away again tomorrow for more dance practice...

“Okay.” The dark-haired woman smiled. “Will we see you for dinner tomorrow? I’m sure Raditz won’t be upset with you or anything.”

That thought hadn’t crossed Bulma’s mind, actually. But, she shook her head nonetheless. “Actually, Vegeta asked me to dinner tomorrow night.”

A big smile. “I understand.” Chi-Chi waved her hands toward the door. “Better get some sleep then.”

“Good night,” Bulma said, walking out of the quarters.

* * *

On the morning of the gala days later, Bulma arrived in engineering and found Tarble already there, whereas on previous days he’d shown up in the afternoons. “This can’t be good.”

“Lady Bulma!” he shouted, clapping his hands together. “I’m afraid that I must steal you away from your work early today. I hope that isn’t too inconvenient.”

She sighed. Everything she’d been accomplishing since actually restoring warp drive was related to automating the procedures. After all, she wouldn’t be around soon to turn anything on or off. For better or for worse, she’d finished _that_ task the day prior. “I was going to run tests today.”

Tarble waved a hand at her. “They will have to wait. Surely you can finish the tests this afternoon?”

Bulma rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “My afternoon schedule seems to be up to you, lately.”

He was unphased. “I’m afraid we have some last minute preparations to take care of before the gala. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a request?”

Tarble chuckled. “No.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

They strode out together, Tarble leading her up the dreaded, dreaded seven staircases toward the true throne room, this time taking a turn down an unfamiliar hallway that she thought was a dead end, no doors on either side. No, though. While the very end of the hall appeared to be nothing but a wall, as they approached she could see a thin outline of a door. Tarble pressed his hand to what seemed like a normal piece of the paneling and with a gentle beep, the wall recessed and slid open just slightly.

They walked in, a light coming on via motion sensor. It appeared to be a suite, relatively lavishly decorated. Almost everything was coated in dust, though seemed to be in decent condition otherwise. Some of the tables were conspicuously clean—she’d guess that Tarble was responsible for that. The furnishings were wooden, many elaborately etched with designs. On the walls were numerous weapons, ones that she would suspect were ceremonial. There were five doors surrounding the central area, which had chaises covered in leathers and furs, made brittle with time and neglect. Each of the doors, which were also wooden, had a conspicuous stained glass window set into it, though none of them were illuminated.

“Where are we?” Bulma asked, wandering over to one of the doors. She couldn’t see inside the window—it was just too dark on the interior.

“These are the royal quarters. Pardon me a moment.” Tarble pulled his trusty rag out and picked one of the dirtier tables to wipe off. “My King and Queen once used this space.”

Bulma peered into another window. She felt like she might be able to make out some shapes in this one...a bed perhaps? “Is this where Vegeta sleeps?”

Tarble scoffed. “The Prince hasn’t bedded here in years. If he sleeps at all, it’s in sick bay.” More dusting. “I spend more time here than he does, though my quarters are elsewhere.”

Well, that was troubling.

It seemed that Tarble was content with the amount of dust present in the room, as he tossed the rag into a laundry chute in the wall. “Follow me, please,” he said, waving her toward a door close to the back. It automatically opened as they drew near it, and they stepped inside, lights again blinking into existence.

Bulma flinched as she crossed the boundary between rooms. It was as though she’d walked headlong into a wall of scent—unmistakably mothballs and naphthalene. Never a particularly good smell, and this was nearly overpowering. Tarble coughed and clamped his tail over his nose, turning to a panel on the wall and pressing some buttons. The noise of a fan began, and slowly the smell began to dissipate, though not slowly enough in Bulma’s opinion. The room revealed itself to be a lavish closet, with numerous dressers and chests, larger garments hanging on racks. Most of it was, as expected, dusty—some of the hanging capes had obviously been munched by  overzealous insects.

“What are we doing here?” Bulma asked as she inspected the clothing.

Tarble moved with purpose to the back of the room. “Finding you something to wear at the gala.”

The chief of staff threw open a chest of drawers, one that looked remarkably pristine despite the condition of the room around it, almost as though it had been regularly cleaned. The wood was the high-quality obsidian stuff that the ship appeared to be constructed from, inlaid with flecks of silver and decorated with thin, delicate lines of red paint. He rummaged around inside it, muttering to himself in the Saiyan tongue, too quiet for Bulma to make out.

The dress that Tarble pulled out and handed to her was not so much a dress as feminine battle armor. Silver, the fabric was inlaid with small scales that jingled as they brushed against one another, gleamed as they caught the light. Bulma reached out, drew her fingernail along it—they were metal, for sure. The sleeves were long and tight, the neck was high and modest, and it appeared to be form fitting save for epaulets on the shoulders. Inlaid along the edges of some of the scales were intricate markings in deep blue paint, and if she looked closely she could see the royal insignia dotted along the centers of some of the scales, evenly scattered around the whole garment.

“Wow,” Bulma said. “This is beautiful.”

“It is the traditional royal gala outfit,” Tarble said, looking at the gown reverently. His eyes shone with pride and memory. “A flawless blend of ferocity and grace. This one belonged to our mother.”

Guilt lanced through her. “I can’t wear this, then.” She held it out, back to him. “It isn’t my place. And I’m certainly not royalty.”

The chief of staff clicked his tongue. “Hm. Well, that is quite unfortunate for you, Lady Bulma. But as you’re going to be accompanying the Prince, it seems only appropriate that you dress the part.”

She turned the garment over again. There wasn’t a zipper or anything similar. No hooks, no velcro, nothing, though there was a notable opening for a tail to slide through. “I don’t even know how I’d get it on.”

Tarble held his hand out, and when Bulma returned the garment to it he simply grabbed the whole thing and pulled. Rather than ripping, the fabric stretched to ludicrous levels, easily becoming three times as wide as before. “Most Saiyan women don’t have trouble,” he drawled as he handed it back to her. “Our clothing is designed to handle our Great Ape transformation.”

“Wow”, she chirped, now turning her analytical eye to the design. What was it made out of? What materials could be so forgiving and yet so strong? Some sort of synthetic plastic? A modification of polyester? She’d be turning that one over in her head for a while, she’d bet.

“Do you have any other reasons why you can’t wear this, My Lady?” Tarble leveled a smirk at her, one that was eerily similar to his brother’s. “Or are you out of excuses?”

Bulma sighed and restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll wear it.”

“Excellent!” Tarble clapped his hands, tail waving in the air a moment before zipping around his waist. “I’ll have it sent to your quarters. I assume you’ll be going back to engineering after this?”

“I mean, are you going to be stealing me away this afternoon?” Bulma asked. “Because if you do, I don’t see why I should try to do anything until then.”

Tarble laughed. “Not today, no. I’m afraid your dancing ability will have to stand on its own.”

This time she did roll her eyes. “Cool. Then I’ll go back to work. Do you need anything else from me?”

The chief of staff folded the dress neatly in his hands, walking past her back into the main area of the suite. Bulma followed. “No. But I will fetch you in your quarters one half hour before the gala is to begin, and I expect you to be prepared appropriately.”

When she nodded, he smiled brightly, and the two of them headed back out into the hallway, leaving the dusty royal suite behind.

* * *

The end of the day, and the beginning of the evening, arrived at long last. Bulma had left engineering with nearly an hour to go before Tarble was to wrangle her, showering and pinning her hair up with minimal difficulty. The few months aboard the ship had grown out her meticulously-cultivated style a couple of centimeters, bangs _far_ too long, but with some careful shaping and smoothing she managed to get everything looking sleek. She didn’t have any makeup to speak of on board, nor was she any good at synthesizing it—and honestly, Bulma hadn’t worn any since leaving Earth anyway, except for sunscreen—but she had borrowed a small amount of lotion from Chi-Chi, her skin now soft and smelling faintly of orange blossoms.

Mere minutes before Tarble was due to arrive, Bulma was holding the dress in front of her as she stepped into it, the fabric stretching much more than she expected. It hugged her tightly, but was not restrictive—no, as she walked and moved her arms around, it was anything but. She glanced in the mirror at herself, frowning briefly when she spotted obvious lines from her undergarments poking their way through the fabric. Best to shimmy those off, she decided, and once the offending garments were removed she smoothed the metal scales over her and adjusted the hems.

Even in the fluorescent light of her quarters, she had to admit she looked good. The metal shone and exaggerated every movement she made. The underlying fabric was soft but durable and accentuated every curve. She had to give it up for Saiyan fashion designers—it was fully functional armor that retained the grace, elegance, and sex appeal of a queen. The only things that weren't combat-ready were her shoes, simple silver sandals that would be comfortable to dance in.

The front door chime rang out, and Bulma strode to it. Unsurprisingly, Tarble was waiting for her, clad in armor resembling that of Prince Vegeta’s typical attire (though without a cape). She indicated the dress, turning from side to side. “What do you think?”

Tarble smiled at her, soft and sad. “You look like Queen Rutega herself,” he crooned. “My brother won’t know what hit him.”

He held out an arm, which she looped her own through, and they strode down to the ballroom together. As they walked, it seemed the entirety of the crew was in the halls, dressed themselves in more formal attire much like how Kakarot and Raditz dressed in their role as royal guard—gleaming armors with none of the usual scuffs. The men who spotted her and Tarble stopped in their tracks, letting them pass with a salute before falling in line behind them.

“Is the whole crew attending?” she asked Tarble as they went.

“Oh  yes,” he said with a nod. “The gala spans the shift break so that everyone can come and feast.”

When they reached the grand doors to the ballroom, they’d already been flung open. Inside, a seemingly endless line of tables stretched from the entrance to the throne, flanking the sides of the room but leaving the middle conspicuously open, presumably for dancing and socializing. Candles filled every nook and cranny, bathing the wood with warm flickers and shining off of the numerous porcelain place settings, identical to those she’d eaten off of when taking her dinners with Vegeta. Already, Saiyans were filling the tables, talking and laughing with one another in the brusque tones typical of their people. They hushed somewhat as they strode in, through the noise did not completely die until Tarble released her arm with a flourish and Bulma walked the remaining distance herself.

Down at the far end of the room, Prince Vegeta was at his throne, gleaming in the light. He looked much as he did for their first dinner, full silver and red armor, white gloves, blue amulet, deep red cape. He stared at her as she approached. She wondered, moving toward him, if his attire was that of a prince or a king, and what it meant that he had been wearing it those weeks ago when they’d first dined. The occasional meals taken together since then, he'd reverted back to his usual costume.

Vegeta's expression was unreadable, though pleasant, as she stepped onto the carpet before his throne, his eyes intense as ever. But he stood, and took a step down to her, holding his palm out. She graciously took it, his gloved hand cool in her own.

“You look magnificent,” he murmured, voice low and deep, the tone sending a chill up her neck. “Like a Saiyan queen.”

“Of course,” Bulma murmured in return, trying to ignore the heat to her skin. “I’m an heiress under the engine grease, after all.” She managed a wink. “I would have looked just as stunning at our first dinner if you’d let me change.”

His eyes scanned her form appreciatively before coming back to rest on her face. There was amusement in his tone. “Well, I certainly understand your preoccupation with clothing, now. But there are more important things.” Vegeta extended his arm toward her. “Bulma, would you do me the honor of having me on your arm tonight?”

“I would be delighted,” she said. Her voice sounded so airy, was that really her? Yes, it was. There was something about the Prince, after these weeks, that just made her feel sweetly light-headed, out of breath. She wrapped her arm around his own, and he slowly led her along the floor.

The usual table, the deep obsidian one they’d dined on previously, had been repositioned. Instead of being tucked away in a nook near the entrance to the kitchens, it was just ahead of the throne, off to one side and perpendicular to the rest of the furnishings. There were only two place settings this time—one for her in glimmering red, and the other for him in shimmering gold. As before, her plate was just alongside his, although this time each of them were seated in the very center of the table. Prince Vegeta led her to her chair, standing over her until she was comfortable.

The crew filed into their own places as soon as Vegeta sat, no announcements needed. Indeed, as soon as the Prince and his companion were settled, a flood of people emerged from the kitchens with the courses. Waiters came up to the head table first, placing tray upon tray of steaming plates onto the table before them. Unceasing questions began— _would you like this, my liege? Lady, do you wish for a drink?_ On and on. Vegeta, it seemed, never said no to any of the foodstuff, and Bulma was happy to try new delicacies and the familiar few things from previous meals. All around, the crew was served similarly, and the raucous noise of eating, drinking, and celebrating filled the room. Bulma, who had a large carafe of that lovely fruit drink set in front of her from the start, was absolutely in heaven as she munched on delicate pastries and robust meat pies. It was hard not to get caught up in the food, especially with the Saiyan tendency to eat as though it was one’s last meal.

Eventually, though, there was a brief lull in the activity, and Prince Vegeta sat back in his seat, patting his mouth with a cloth napkin. She could feel the heat from his body as he leaned toward her, speaking close to her ear to counteract the din of the meal. “Is it all to your liking?” he asked, the breath brushing her ear.

“Yes!” she bubbled, patting her stomach for emphasis. “It’s all wonderful, I’m stuffed full!”

Vegeta snorted, the sound more felt than heard. “You’ve hardly eaten anything,” he teased, using his bear claw to poke at a portion of roast vegetable she’d yet to tackle, and bring it to his own mouth.

Bulma placed her hand along her collar in mock offense. “And yet you have the audacity to steal food from me? For shame, Prince Vegeta. I thought you were an honorable man.”

The Prince just chuckled as he chewed, but perhaps to make up for it stabbed a roll with his knife and slid it in front of her. “We are even,” he drawled once he’d swallowed.

She let out a dramatic huff and rolled her eyes. “I suppose,” she said, but the smile couldn’t stay off her face for long, especially as she took a bite of the bread.

He let out a pleased hum, perhaps even a sigh, and didn’t quite smile back, but it was notable that she felt a fuzzy warmth at her elbow as his tail gently rested against it.

Soon the din died down around them and waiters came to clean. As the plates were cleared and the crew fully satiated themselves, music began to play, coming from speakers she couldn’t see. Save for that, there was silence, and every eye in the ship was turned toward the head table, toward her in particular. Vegeta stood tall, commanding attention, and then shouted across the room in the Saiyan tongue. Bulma wasn't quite yet fluent in Saiyan, but it was obvious even with her subpar comprehension that he was giving the masses permission to dance. Cheers erupted from the men, and a good portion leapt up to begin to move to the music. This was not choreographed, as far as she could tell.

The announcement made, Vegeta dropped back into his seat.

“Well said,” Bulma quipped. It seemed the joke was lost on him, though, because he sat stiffly and glanced away from her.

The Prince cleared his throat. “You may pick anyone to dance with for the evening. Switching partners is...acceptable, if you so choose.”

“Why so nervous?” Bulma laid her hand on his arm. “Think I’m gonna run off with Raditz or something?”

“Tch.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Vegeta, I want to dance with _you_. Not anyone else. You asked me here.”

It was subtle, the change in him. His shoulders rolled down nearly imperceptibly, and he turned his body towards hers again (though he had yet to look back in her direction). His tail, pulled away from her when he stood, found its way into her lap, lying innocently on the top of her thigh. Perhaps innocent wasn’t the best word, though, because the proximity to distinctly more sinful areas of her body did not escape her notice.

They sat like that for a few moments, peacefully enjoying the sight of the crew grooving away. A chime rang out over the speakers, one that set Bulma on edge as she recognized it—the beginning of the damned song Tarble had been teaching her. The raucous movement came to a sudden halt, and once more all eyes turned toward the head table. Bulma’s heart skipped a beat as the Saiyan crowd parted, the dance floor opening up before them. It was one thing to be at the center of attention—yes, Lady Briefs was exceptional at _that_ —but it was another to be under a spotlight when one felt unprepared. Unpreparedness was a foreign concept to her, most days.

Vegeta blinked into existence on her other side, moving faster than she could comprehend, startling her out of her seat. “I will take you up on your offer to dance now, woman.”

“Don’t call me that,” she chastised, but even that wasn’t enough to fully assuage her nerves.

The Prince held a hand out, and Bulma took it as was expected of her. His feet did not touch the floor as the two of them moved into the center of the room. Bulma, on the other hand, felt heavy and envious.

As they reached the middle, a second chime rang, and drumming began. It was a quick beat, followed by horns, strings of some sort. The crowd around them drew closer—behind Vegeta, Bulma spotted Chi-Chi and Kakarot, assembling themselves with the others in a ring surrounding them—but it was only a moment that she was distracted, because now she and Vegeta were standing square with each other, tall, legs firmly on the ground.

They both drew a breath.

On the downbeat, the step—Vegeta’s cape brushed against her hip as they whirled around each other, palms touching for a moment on the pass-through until she felt the solid heat of him against the small of her back, the metal scales of her dress clicking against each other. Bend down, bodies pressed together, abdomens tight—the tail curl was subtle, the Prince wrapping his around her arm like a band. Step, one leg out, each rotating a quarter turn, side by side with each other. Brushing elbows, a smooth slide to the left, their shoes nearly silent against the hard floor, never once breaking contact. It had been only a matter of seconds but here she was, adrenaline pushing her through the difficult steps.

Vegeta turned around, and as he did a pair of Saiyans appeared before them—no, it was Kakarot and Chi-Chi again, of all people, but she didn't have time to think about that because the fight began. Vegeta's huge hands were around her waist in an instant, up in the air, flashbacks to sick bay before when her stomach lay pressed against his palm but not this time, this time instead she was only hoisted enough to jab her foot toward the only other woman on the ship, her dear friend clad in that same blue and red gown she remembered from their first meeting, delicate shoes doing a disservice to the strength and power of a retired warrior. One kick, two kicks, careful not to make real contact, not to damage, only to pretend. The third kick on a heavy drum beat, and she was pulled back, Vegeta lunging ahead of her with a shout as Kakarot did the same, forearms locking together with perhaps too much force, and as she landed on her feet it was nothing like how Tarble had said it would be. The look of sheer ferocity in each of their eyes, joyful violence, as though they were two rivals facing each other on the field of battle. Predators circling their prey. Blink, though, and it was gone, each man retreating back toward his partner. There was fire burning in Vegeta's eye, trained on her like she was the only person in the room, and could she look away from him much the same?

Whirl, press, drop, rise, kick, spin. Whirl, press, drop, rise, kick, spin. She didn't see the other couples after a few repetitions, everything was a blur of color and movement. His body steadily pressed closer to hers with every move, soon he wasn't leaving her side even to lunge forth at other dancers. It was _exhilarating_ , everything coming together, the music speeding up as they pressed on, drums drums drums against a background of war instruments. Primal, moving as partners, practice and instinct blending together.

The end of the song was coming, a blast of horns over the speakers shocking her, and Vegeta was too close now, no give to correct the mistake. She tripped over her footing, that one damned step she could never get in practice, right before the last, fastest round—but she didn't fall. No, he was there to catch her, and she landed in his arms as though she hadn't missed the step at all.

“I have you woman,” he said, his thumb rubbing against her arm. His skin was flushed, his pupils wide.

“Yes,” she breathed. “You do.”

No more time to talk, Vegeta whirled her around, hands about her waist and practically throwing her around to kick at the couple across the line from them, she nearly lost a shoe from the speed and when she came back to the ground it was graceful in the way a big cat was, viciously, just as graceful as he was when he shouted for the last time at his opponent, block with the arms, and finally turned to face her as the music stopped with a crash.

Bulma and Vegeta each stood in one another's grasp, catching their breath, chests heaving, sweat beading on them. Cheers erupted all around, the crew celebrating the spectacle, but she could hardly hear them, as though the roar of the ocean itself was in her ears, blood rushing to block them out. Eyes locked with each other. Nothing else in the room. Perhaps it was no surprise when Vegeta drew her to his chest again, heavy arms warm and safe.

Another song was queued and then played, dispersing the crowd from its formation. Vegeta loosened his grip on her but a second. “We should move,” he rumbled.

“Okay,” Bulma panted. She had not yet recovered, and the dress had glued itself to her skin. “Where to?”

* * *

The alcove Vegeta led her to was cozy and warm, the tapestries on the walls brushing Bulma’s shoulders as she stood with him. But the view was what made it spectacular—a window to the outside of the ship ahead of them revealed stars streaking by. When last Bulma had seen this view, she’d been nearly able to make out individual stars, as they were going sub-warp speeds. Now that the engines were fully fixed, they were more like lines blurring together across the sky. A perfect place to catch their breath.

Vegeta curled an arm around her waist, the din of the party barely an afterthought. “You look stunning tonight.”

She felt herself blushing. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.” Bulma smiled at him. “I’m having a great time.”

The Prince returned her smile for a moment, before his expression became serious. He drew in a breath as she watched him. “We land on our homeworld soon, and I feel I have much to tell you before that.”

She patted his arm. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Vegeta.”

“No, I must.” His eyes bored into hers with conviction, intensity. “After everything you have gone through on this ship, at my hand, I feel you have a right to know.”

There was a small ledge in the alcove, just large enough for the two of them. Bulma sat herself upon it and Vegeta did the same, looking down at his gloved hands a moment before returning his attention to her.

“When I was a boy,” he began, “I only wanted to become stronger and grow into a good king. But I was not a kind-hearted child, Bulma, not even then. And any kindness I had left, Frieza beat out of me.” She laid her hand on his thigh, and some of the tension already building in him relaxed. “My strength was the only thing that kept me alive as a boy. I thought that when I killed him, I would feel free in all ways. But that was not what happened.” He looked out the window, at the worlds whirling by. “We were attacked constantly. Not a month would go by without someone challenging me for Frieza’s empire, without a planet uprising against us. I grew strong, stronger. And now I am what you see today.” He waved his hand along his body, at the snout, the fur, the muscles.

Listening intently, Bulma absently began to run her fingers through the fur on his arm.

She wasn’t sure he noticed. “No matter how strong I became, any time my empire saw weakness, or a moment where my back was turned, we were attacked. Any time I invited a guest on the ship, I was attacked. Any time I returned to homeworld, my planet was attacked.” He was glaring at the stars. “That stopped once I assumed this form permanently. But...” He trailed off.

“But?” Bulma gently prompted.

He trained his attention on her, a soft sadness in his eyes. “A Saiyan is not built for the strain of this form long-term, Bulma. My body is...breaking.” Vegeta laid his hands on her waist for a moment, as though it would help her to understand. “My time in the pods only slows down the inevitable. But if I leave this form willingly, we _will_ get attacked.  That is the truth.”

It took much willpower for her not to tell him he was wrong. She knew that would stop him from talking.

“Now, we’re on our way to homeworld, and I still cannot shake the feeling of death and legacy.” He sighed heavily. “Homeworld is where my parents ruled, where my father was the king. I am not my father.” Bulma briefly remembered the tapestry in the throne room. “He was a weaker man than I, but a greater ruler. Great enough to attract my mother to his side.”

Fondness, reminiscence, came to him for a moment. Then it was gone.

“I didn’t want this gala when Tarble suggested it,” he said. “I thought it wasn’t my place as a Prince, that I would be copying my family poorly. Mocking their memory, their legacy. But I realized slowly that it did not have to be.” His tail slid around her waist, pulling her into him. “I wanted to do it to honor them, to honor my people. I wanted to honor...you, as well.”

Bulma felt herself blush at the words. “...Thank you,” she managed.

An energy came to Vegeta, then. “Come with me,” he said, standing and facing her. “I wish to show you something.”

“Of course.”

The Prince reached out and she took his offered hand, leading her away down the halls.

* * *

The hall was dusty and familiar, the stale air reminding her of a daring escape gone wrong. The heavy door was still ajar, seemingly untouched since she'd left it weeks ago. He opened it fully with a somber reverence. The furnishings were still destroyed, the carnage wrought from decades past still heavy in the air. The Prince placed his palm up in the air and ignited a very small energy ball, blue light shining into every corner of the room, a simple torch. There was no malice here, this time, not like their first meeting when he’d aimed it at her chest, not like on Arcose when he was slaughtering slave traders. No, it was just there for utility, and she felt safe.

Bulma’s eye was drawn to the tapestry again, the one with his family portrayed so prominently.

“My parents died here,” Vegeta said, breaking the silence. He nodded toward the broken thrones. “Sitting in their thrones, running a kingdom. Frieza murdered them himself. His men killed the rest. They tried to fight back, but it was useless.”

They stepped forward, closer to the destruction. As before, Bulma felt her stomach protest against the sight of the Saiyan-shaped burns and the dried blood.

Vegeta continued on, expression haunted. “Frieza sat here, after slaughtering the court. Told everyone who was still alive that he was now their ruler, not my father.” He nodded toward a corner of the room. “I was there when it happened.”

Bulma gasped. “How old were you?”

“Ten years old. Saiyan years.” So about five Earth years. Too young. “When Frieza left, he ordered the castle to stay on homeworld just in this state, never to be disturbed. A reminder of his power.” There was a sneer on his face, now. Disgust, betrayal. “After I killed him, I came back for it, launched the ship. But I couldn’t look at the thrones, at the place where a tyrant had sat after killing everyone I held dear.” He shook his head. “I was different after that. I didn’t want to think of my family.”

She squeezed his arm, in hopes of being comforting. “Why?”

His guard was down. “I thought they’d be disappointed in me,” he murmured, and it was like a child speaking through him. “For not saving them.”

Bulma felt she’d been stabbed in the heart, his pain hers for that moment. “I don’t think any parent could be disappointed in you, Vegeta. For failing to do the impossible.”

His shoulders, before high and tense, drooped as she spoke, and his eyes gently shut. He breathed deep, a shuddering sound, before fixing his gaze on her once more. He said nothing, but his expression spoke multitudes.

“Thank you,” she said. “For showing me this. For telling me.”

He looked down into her eyes. “It is what you deserve.”

Bulma gently threaded a hug around him, pressing herself to him. She could hear his heart beating in his chest, strong, sure. “It's okay to stop protecting yourself, Vegeta,” she whispered. “You don't have to be like this all the time.”

He shook his head. “You are wrong this time, Bulma.”

She looked up at him. “Do you trust me, Vegeta?”

“We danced together,” he said immediately, as though that was sufficient.

Bulma shook her head. “That’s not an answer.” And here he hesitated, stiffening—what else could one do, when called out, when accused of being distrustful?

“I—”

She cut him off. This was not about her. “You don’t need to protect yourself from me, Vegeta.” Her hand against his arm was small, muted in contrast to the gleaming silver armor. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Prince Vegeta frowned. There was a softness to his eyes, a sadness shining across the brown irises. Hesitation again, he froze like that, what could he be thinking of? The tail curled about her waist, then, tugging at her even as the rest of his body leaned away just slightly. Conflict.

Bulma countered, leaning into him, just gently. To try and comfort. He’d said so much already, and to shut him down now would be a tragedy. “I promise.”

The words flowed out of him, more open than perhaps he’d ever been. “I cannot believe you, Bulma,” he said, voice soft, none of his harsh tone coming through now. No, only sincerity, and perhaps regret, and this dulled the pain of his words. “I trust you not to wound me, not even to attempt harm on me. But I have showed you so much of myself that...” It was hard for him to say. He grimaced, spoke fast. “I am afraid you have no choice.”

Now it hurt. Her heart sank in her chest, inexplicably betrayed. But how could she be? He was honest, and she was only a few short weeks away from being off his ship...out of his life.

“Are you still planning to leave?” he asked brusquely, as though he read her mind himself.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Ah.”

“My family is still on Namek,” she explained, crossing her arms about her waist. “They need me. And...I’ve fixed your engines.”

It seemed he did not want to look at her anymore. “What will you do?”

God, she’d been formulating this plan for so long. Yet, seeing him now, relaying it to him, she almost wanted to pretend she was making it up on the spot. “Once we land on homeworld, I was going to ask for a shuttle.” Bulma ran her fingers along the scales of her dress for a moment, the clicking noise of nails on metal soothing. “I’ll pilot myself back to Namek that way, or see if I can find a bigger ship to take me.”

Vegeta straightened. “No. You will not do that.”

She blinked, confusion and betrayal swirling through her. “What?”

He turned to her quickly, grasping her hands with his own. “After everything you’ve done for...for the Saiyan people, you deserve better than to be abandoned.”

“I don’t understand—”

It was with conviction that he said, “We will take you back ourselves.”

A gasp. “No, Vegeta, this trip has taken months—”

He squeezed her hands, halting her protest. “And as you just pointed out, we have a fixed engine.”

The thoughts were racing away from her. Images of her family, of Vegeta, of long days in the engine room, all spiraling. “But—”

“I will not hear your arguments, Bulma.” He was stern. “We will go to homeworld, for the full moon, and once our business is completed, I will take you back to Namek myself.” Now he softened, running gloved fingers along the back of her hands. “With our warp drive online, it will only take a matter of days.”

Her resolve, once so strong, crumbled as a vision of seeing her family, of drawing them into her arms again, lodged itself at the forefront of her mind. And as that crumbled, so too did her composure, the tears coming easily, almost as easy as it was to throw her arms around his neck and draw him down to her in a warm embrace. He was stiff for a moment, but then she felt him relax and grasp her by the waist, pull her into him.

“Thank you, Vegeta,” she choked out between sobs. “I...thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks -- what a hard chapter to write! I'm so grateful to you all for sticking it out, through a TPTH Nomination Cycle and NaNoWriMo as well! <3


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